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JOHN O’BRIEN; 


THE ORPHAN OF BOSTON. 




REV. JOHN T. RODDAN. 


BOSTON: 

PUBLISHED BY PATRICK DONAHOE, 
No. 23 Franklin Street. 

1856. 


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JOHN O’BRIEN. 


CHAPTER I. 

«Ho«v’iKG HOW John’s early ideas began to shoot. 

He is lost ! He will fall ! 

I tell you no ! Be quiet, there ! Bring some blankets, 
and let stout men hold them by the corners. We may save 
him yet. 

What is the matter ? 

Why in Cross Street, Boston, year of our Lord 1819, on a 
fine May morning, there was a great crowd ; and they were 
staring at something that was resting upon the gutter of a 
four-story house. It was an overgrown monlcey, with an 
infant in its ugly arms. 

Baby seemed to like the sport as well as Jocko did. The 
animal had often seen nurse fondle the infant, and he tried to 
outdo her in her own business. He would pat baby ; sing — 
no, chatter to it ; and now and then he would give it a little 
toss in the air, to the unspeakable fright of the people below, 
who opened their eyes as if they meant them for blankets ; 
and their mouths, as if they were so many soft places to 
catch the little thing that was going to fall. 

It gave uncrowable delight to baby, though. We don’t 
have to wait until we are weaned before we have some notion 
of the peculiar sweetness of stolen waters, and baby seemed 
to know that something good was going on, .that wouldn’t last 
a great while. It didn’t feel afraid to fall, and it took quite 
kindly to its ugly nurse. 

What is the reason, James, that all children, from Romulus 

1 


2 


and Remus to the hero of. this story, have liked ugly nurses 
better than handsome ones ? 

I deny the fact, says James ; I didn’t. 

Well, I’ll go on with my story. 

Some wise fellows in the crowd were going to set up a 
shout, hoping that the animal would be frightened, and run 
back into the house. Their well-meant effort was nipped in 
the bud by an old salt, who had b^en at Ape’s Hill, on the 
African coast. He said that the creature would drop his 
charge at the first alarm. Other considerate men wanted to 
go to the top of the house, and give chase to Jocko. The 
sailor had provided against such an attempt. A few friends 
guarded the interior of the. house, and tried as well as they 
could to calm the distracted mother. As for nurse, she had 
gone quite mad. She had set her clothes on fire twice ; she 
had scratched and bit herself ; and now she was tugging at 
her hair, which gave way, because it was a wig. She wanted 
to be laid in the same coffin with her darling John. 

Meanwhile, men were ready on the sidewalk, with blankets. 
Every precaution was taken, and there was nothing for it but 
to wait the pleasure of the monkey. He was evidently dis- 
posed to play at something else ; besides, baby was heavy ; 
‘it weighed sixteen pounds. So he clambered up the roof, got 
into the house, and left baby in the cradle, whence he had 
stolen it. He looked as if he had done a good, action. It 
was his last, though, for he dined on a short allowance of 
wind, brought about by a bit of rope, and nothing to stand 
upon.* 

I am glad that Jocko did not let me fall. This story would 
not go on well without its hero. 

I have my parents’ authority for saying that I was the most 
wonderful baby that ever lived. Nurse used to cry, some- 
times, and say, that such a bright child wouldn’t be long for 
this world. I have thought since that I was no better than 
other babies. One of the first things I remember was a 
scolding I got from mother. I recollect she said that the evil 
one must be at my elbow,' telling me what mischief to make 
next. 

I will tell you something that I think I remember. I must 
have been very little, and I had almost fulfilled nurse’s proph- 


* This incident happened at the time and in the place described- 
Baby, now a man, is well known to the writer. 


3 


ecy, by dy’ng of the dysentery. It was warm, bright weather ; 
and, O, how good the breezes felt to me, after I had been 
made to lie still in a dark room, and take nasty physic so 
many times I It seems like a dream to me now ; and when 
I go in my sleep to better lands, I always feel those breezes 
coming back. Well, I saw some fruit across the way, and it 
looked good. I was scarcely able to talk, but I made mother 
understand that I must have some of that fruit. And I hac 
my own way about it. Mother tried very hard to make me 
understand that it was not good for me ; she thought that she 
would gain her point by giving me other goodies that would 
not hurt me ; she promised me all the pretty toys that were 
ever made ; but it was of no use. I wanted the fruit, and 
nothing else. Well, she gave it up. She thought that fret- 
ting would hurt me more than the melon would ; and besides, 
“ natur don’t crave any thing for nothin’.” This last was sug- 
gested by the nurse. I ate as much of the fruit as I wanted,- 
and in three hours I was sick enough. 

What is the matter with John } said my father, when he 
came home, in the afternoon. He was getting along finely 
this morning. 

Why, he wanted a piece of melon, and he begged so hard, 
that I was afraid to vex him in his present weak state. 

Foolish mother ! I am afraid that he will never eat 
another melon. And father ran for the doctor, without 
saying another word. 

Many days passed before I was as well as T was when I 
asked for the fruit. 

The sickness passed away, and I quite forgot it. But I 
remembered that I could have my own way with mother . 
This little piece of knowledge was of great use to me ; at 
least, I thought so in my childish days. I only had to coax 
and tease her, and I almost always got what I wanted. I 
was her only child, and she could not bear to see a shadow 
rest upon my face for a moment. 

It seems to me that I knew that I would have that melon, 
young as I was.. Perhaps I had often gained my point 
before. I don’t know. 

Gained your pointy you great fool ! What point could 
you have to gain, at that age } Were you not a little animal^ 
wanting nothing but what was necessai^ to support animal 
life It requires reflection and calculation to gain any point. 
How could you calculate then 7 


4 


Now, that is just what I deny. My father had a theory 
about children, and he almost always acted to suit it. I have 
thought of his notion since, and I like it somewhat. 

It was not long before my father died, and he was talking 
with a gentleman who had called to pass a quiet evening with 
us. Father was just beginning to let me sit in the room 
when he had evening visitors, and I liked it well ; for I 
thought that I was partly a man, when I was not sent to bed 
at sunset. I remember how I gained this favor. One after- 
noon, when he came home, I went to him, and looked 
straight into his eyes, as I had seen him do, when he wanted 
to say something very important. 

Well, my son ? 

Father, am I a hen 7 

Why, no, my boy. 

He never called me a fool, no matter how strange my 
questions were. He answered them as gravely as if they 
had been put by wise old men. 

Well, father, am I a rooster 7 

My dear child, no ! Why do you ask these questions } 

Because I heard mother saying that they ought to go to 
bed at sunset. Now I think that I can tell you why I should 
not be sent to bed when they go. 

Well ! 

They are not driven to roost. They go because they 
want to. Now, I have to go to bed very often when I had 
rather not. I always try to mind you as well as 1 can ; but 
sometimes I feel as if I would rather go without my supper, 
than be sent to my room so early. I cannot always get to 
sleep, because I try to think what you and mother are saying, 
when you are all alone. Do you think that I would tell 
any body what you say, father ? 

Father and mother looked at one another. I thought that 
1. knew what that look meant, and I was pretty sure that I was 
going to get what I asked for. By this time I had come very 
near to him, and I was looking earnestly into his eyes. I 
always thought that my face looked better there than in a 
glass. 

My boy, I know that you never did such a mean actioa 
Have you any thing more to say ? 

How proud I always felt, when he used to say that he 
knew I would not do this or that bad thing ! He said it very 
often. How many times it kept me from doing a naughty 


5 


action! I said to myself, Father knows that I will not do 
this thing, and I will not. I did not exactly understand how 
he knew it I thought that perhaps my guardian angel told 
him my thoughts. I could not see how he could find them 
out so many times as he did in any other w’ay. 

Yes, father, there is another thing. I cannot see that the 
fowls do any thing but^eat. Now, when it is dark, they cannot 
find any worms, so they go to sleep until the light comes. 
Now, father, I was made for something else than eating and 
drinking. You told me so, a great while ago. I want to read 
and hear you talk. ^ 

Father whispered something to mother. I don’t know wha 
it was ; but he told me that I need not go to bed that evening 
until nine o’clock. I cannot tell you how glad I was, for I 
knew that Mr. and Mrs. Sandford were coming to our house 
that evening, and I could scarcely eat my supper for joy. I 
wanted to have the tea things cleared away in a hurry, 
because I was afraid that they would come before we were 
ready to sit down and talk. 

John, bring your chair, and sit beside me. I did so. 
Do you know why I have done what you asked me ? 

I suppose that it was to humor me, father. 

No, my son, it was not. I never humor you, when you 
ask for any thing which you ought not to have. When I 
can see good reasons for doing as you wish, I always like to 
do it, when I can. 

So you saw good reasons for letting me sit with you 
to-night } 

You gave them, my boy. Do you know what a logi- 
cian is } 

No, sir. 

Well, no matter. You have proved to me that you are 
not a fowl, and that, in some things, you ought not to be 
treated like one. You gave good reasons for what you said, 
and I believed them. 

Then a logician is a man that gives good reasons for 
what he says, is he, sir } 

Something like it. Do you remember how you wanted 
to walk out with me last Thursday ^ 

Yes, sir. It was a fine afternoon ; the sun shone so 
brightly, and every thing looked so pleasant, that I wanted 
to take the air. You would not let me go. 

1 * 


Why not ? Did you give me any good reason for your 
wish ? 

Father, I only said that I wanted to walk. 

Well ? 

And you told me to look at a little black cloud that was 
in one corner of the sky, towards Roxbury. You said that 
there would be rain before night. 

And you did not believe me. 

Father, that is saying too much. I did not know what to 
think. Every thing looked so beautiful ! 1 was sorry when 

you went away without me. 

Were you sorry all the afternoon. 

O, no, sir. F stood at the front door, watching that little 
black cloud. It began to grow bigger and bigger, until at 
last it seemed to be coming this way. I was so busy looking 
at it, that I forgot all about my disappointment. And then 
the whole sky grew black, and some big drops of rain fell 
upon my face. I shut the door, and went to the window, 
where I watched the people scampering every way to get 
out of the storm. I was glad that I was at home. Then it 
began to thunder and lighten terribly. 

Were you frightened ? 

No, sir. I used to be afraid of lightning, until you told 
me what it was. You made it so plain to me, that I knew all 
about it. And then you took me to Dr. Farnsworth’s house, 
and made him show me the machine for making lightning 
He showed me how to turn the crank, and make it, too. 1 
was never afraid of lightning after that. Ha, ha, ha ! 

What are you laughing at ? 

Why, father, my dog Carlo. You know I turned the 
crank, and made him put his paw on the wire. How he 
jumped and yelled ! And O, I forgot to tell you how I got a 
beautiful new book, this afternoon, on your account. 

On my account ! How was that ? 

Why, father, Mr. Upton and the school committee came 
to see us to-day. Miss Parmenter told us that they were 
coming, and she bade us do her credit. What a dear, good 
mistress she is! Well, Lydia Kimball had kept the head 
for a week, and I was glad of it, although I wanted to be at 
the head too. When we said our lessons, this morning, she 
happened to make a mistake. She knew the lesson well 
enough, but she was thinking about something else then. At 
any rate, Miss Parmenter asked me, and I knew the answe. 


7 


— so I went to the head. The committee came, as I told 
you, and you know that there was a little shower this afternoon. 

Mr. Upton spoke to us. Children, do you know what 
thunder and lightning are ? James Gardner stood up. 

Well, my little fellow, what is it.? said Mr. Upton. 

W^hen it thunders, God is talking ! 

Father, what do you think of that answer .? There was 
something good in it, but it did not seem right. 

My boy, you have just said it. I think that you know 
nearly as well as I can tell you ; only you cannot explain your 
notion properly. Why do you think that James Gardner’s 
answer had something good in it.? 

Why, father, I do not know ; that is, I cannot tell ex- 
actly what I mean. God made the thing that thunders, that 
is certain. Then it is his. The thunder is a noise that 
comes out of the clouds, towards heaven, where God is. You 
might call it a kind of a voice, only you cannot understand 
what it says, any more than I could understand what you 
were saying yesterday to that Frenchman. Besides, thunder 
is the loudest noise 1 ever heard, and I suppose that if God 
were to talk, he would make such a noise. And then 1 
remember that God came down in fire on Mount Sinai, and 
when he spoke there was thunder and lightning. You know 
that you carried me to Boylston Hall, last Sunday evening, to 
hear the “ Creation.” When they were singing God’s words, a 
man near the organ banged the drum, now and then. You 
told me that it was meant for thunder. I thought that it was 
■ queer thunder, and so did the man, I think ; for he did not 
look very solemn about it. 

Very well, my son, now tell me why the answer did not 
seem right to you. 

O, that is easy enough. There is a question iri the Cate- 
chism, Has God a body .? and the answer is. No, he is a 
pure spirit. Now, if God has not got a body, he has no 
tongue ; so he cannot talk, as we do. 

Very well, John. Now, do not you think that it was 
better for you to study out the matter for yourself, than to 
hear me explain it .? I should have told you, in other words, 
what you have said just now. 

Perhaps you would, father. Sometimes I think that I 
know some things, but when I try to explain myself, I do not 
always know how to do it ; and sometimes I talk^ such non- 
nense that I begin to think that people are laughing at me ; . ^ 


8 


and then I begin to stammer, and sometimes I cry like a litt.e 
fool. But I never feel so when I am talking with you. You 
ask just the right kind of questions, and they seem to leam 
me how to give the answers that I want to give. It is a nice 
way of teaching, father. You ask me a question that puts 
me in the way of knowing things, and you make me think 
all the time that I have found them out myself. But I am not 
quite satisfied, yet. 

What do you want to know } 

Why, the Catechism says that God has no body. But, in 
the Old Testament, he talks about his body ; and he used to 
speak words to Moses. How is that } 

My dear boy, have I not told you often that there are 
many things which no one in the world can understand r 

Yes, sir. I remember, the other day, that you puzzled 
me a great deal when you asked me why I lifted my arm 
when I wanted to. You said that it was as strange to you as 
it was to me, although I never thought before that there was 
any thing about it hard to understand. 

Well, you believe that you can lift up your arm when 
you want to } 

Father, I know that I can. See here ! 

And you do not understand how it is done } 

No, sir. 

Well, what lesson do you learn from that? 

I thought for a moment. I suppose it is, that there are a 
great many things which are very true, and which we cannot 
understand, for all that. 

Quite right. Remember this when any body asks you a 
question about something in the Catechism which looks strange 
to you. 

Then you cannot tell how it is thafe God has no body, 
while he says that he has. 

Softly, my boy ; you are getting on too fast. God does 
not say any where that he has a real body. You think that 
he may have one, because some things he says sound as if 
he had a body. Is it not so ? 

Yes, sir. 

Very well. I have often told you about your guardian 
angel. Do you not think that he can do any thing that you 
can, and better than you can, too ? Is he not much moie 
powerful than you are ? 

O, yes, father. 


9 


Well, he can speak, then ; and he can do things which 
make him appear as it* he had a body. Did you ever read 
about angels doing these things ? 

Yes, sir. Abraham, and Jacob, and some other good 
men, were very familiar with angels. But did not these good 
spirits deceive men, when they made them believe that they 
had bodies, while they had not ? I know that this is a wrong 
question, but it looks very strange. 

Do you remember the story you told me about John Wilson ? 

Yes, sir. 

Well, tell it again. 

Why, father, John Wilson looks just like Charles Car- 
penter ; you can hardly tell them apart. Well, John’s father 
bought for him a suit of clothes that looks exactly like 
Charles’s suit. So, Monday morning John came to school, 
and every body, almost, called him Charles Carpenter. 1 
was almost going to call him so, too. Well, John made 
a mistake in his lesson. I believe it was the first he ever 
made. 

Stand out in the middle of the floor, Charles Carpenter, 
says the master. 

After lessons were over, the master took out his cowhide. 
Now, Charles Carpenter, you are always lazy. You never 
get your lessons properly. I will teach you to do better than 
this, if I can. And then John got a terrible beating ; but he 
did not say a word. 

Now, Charles Carpenter, go to your desk. I wish you 
were as good a boy as John Wilson is ! 

Then some of the boys burst out laughing. The master 
asked what it meant. One of the biggest stood up, and said, 
Master, you have been beating John Wilson all this time. 

Why, it cannot be ! said he. Come here, sir. Why, so it 
is ! John Wilson, why did you not tell me that you were 
not Charles Carpenter ? 

Because I like him, and I did’nt want him to be whip- 
ped. 

You are a noble boy, said the master. I will make some 
amends to you for this. 

There is the story, father. How we all loved John 
Wilson after that ! 

Very well, John. Do you remember our talk, last sum- 
mer, about the round tower, and the crooked stick ? 

Let me see ! O yes, I remember. You took your stick 


10 


and put it into the water, and I was sure that it was broken, 
it did not look like the same cane. And when we were a 
great way out in the country, you made me stop when we had 
got to the top of a hill, and you asked me whether a monu- 
ment, which we saw a great way off, were round, or square. 
Father, I knew that it was square, but it looked round then^ 
that is certain. 

Well. Now you said just now that it seems as if the 
angels deceived people, because they appeared to have bodies, 
like oure. 

Yes, sir. 

Did John Wilson deceive the master ? Did the stick 
make you think that it was crooked ? Or did the monument 
make you believe that it was round ? 

I thought for a minute. I begin to see into it, father. 
The master did not stop to look sharply at John Wilson ; and 
1 was in too great a hurry in making up my mind about the 
■cane and the monument. So I judged too hastily, when 1 
said that it seems as if angels deceived people, sometimes 
did I, father .? 

You did, my son. Now think- well, and tell me what 
lesson is to be learned from all this ? 

It means that we ought not always trust to appearances, 
I think. But if the cane and the monument did not deceive 
me, how is it that my copy book says, ‘‘'‘Men are often de- 
ceived hy appearances ? ” I wrote it out in coarse hand to-day 
at school. 

My boy, we are very proud creatures. We make mis- 
takes, and then we blame any thing, and any body, but our- 
selves. Now that we have seen what ought to be thought of 
James Gardner’s answer to Mr. Upton, when he asked what 
thunder and lightning meant, let us hear what happened next. 
When he said that the thunder is God’s voice, what answer 
did he get .? 

Father, Mr. Upton smiled, and asked his name, how old 
he was, and where he went to meeting. Then he said to 
James, Your answer is partly right ; but I think that we 
can get nearer to the truth. Does any one else wish to an 
swer } 

Jane Hill stood up. Well, my little girl .? said Mr 
Upton. 

Thunder and lightning is made to strike little boys ana 
girls when they tell lies. 


11 


We all laughed at that, but Mr. Upton looked very sober 
and he stopped us. Who told you that ? he asked. 

My mother told me so a great many times, said Jane. • 
Father, was not that a very silly answer ? I have known a 
great many boys and girls who tell lies, sometimes, and none 
of them were killed for it ; so it must be a lie. What a 
horrid thing it is for a father or mother to tell lies to their 
boys and girls. I know that you could not tell me one, 
father. 

Father then turned to my mother, and began to talk about 
it. It is very wrong, he said, for parents to say these things, 
and they are punished severely for it, sometimes. I think 
that men and women who are afraid of thunder and light- 
ning, almost always have to thank their parents, or some igno- 
rant nurse, for it. I remember how a beautiful little girl in 
Ireland was ruined by this foolish custom of frightening chil- 
dren into good conduct. Her name was Annie O’Connor, 
and she was about seven years old. She had told a lie, it 
seems, and her mother caught her in it ; for she was not a fin- 
ished liar, so she did it in a bungling way. Her mother for- 
gave her, for that time, but told her never to tell a lie to any 
body again ; if she did, the lightning would strike. her surely. 

About a month after, Annie did not come home from 
school at the usual time. Two hours passed, and she came, 
when her mother asked her why she was so late. Annie said 
that the mistress had kept her for not learning her lessons 
well. This mistress was the parson’s sister, for Mr. O’Con- 
nor was a Protestant. 

You were rightly served, said her mother. You were 
reading that story book all the morning, instead of getting 
your lesson. 

Now Annie had told a lie. There was a vulgar daughter 
of a drunken squireen, who was a perfect nuisance to all that 
knew her. She would swear as badly as the worst boys ; 
indeed, she kept scarcely any other company. She always 
took great pleasure in tormenting the other girls, but she 
seemed to like Annie ; indeed, no one could help doing so, 
for she was very pretty, and very gentle, too. Annie was 
strictly forbidden, by her parents, to keep company with 
Ellen Dwyer, but Ellen gave her no peace until she would be 
sociable ; and Annie, seeing how hard she tried to please her, 
thought that her parents must be wrong in being so very 
strict about it ; so their intimacy grew every day. On this 


12 


afternoon, Ellen persuaded Annie to go with her^o her house , 
indeed, she had often urged her to go there, telling her that 
she would show her a great many fine things that she had 
never seen before, and above all, a new dress, that had come 
from Dublin only the day before. Annie at last agreed to go 
with her, and they went together to the hall. But Annie was 
uneasy, for she knew that she was doing wrong, and she did 
not know what to tell her mother when she would go home. 
Ellen made up the lie for her, and Annie told it, as I said 
before. 

Not long after she got home, the sky suddenly grew 
dark, and there was the heaviest shower I ever saw. The 
thunder was very grand, and the lightning very sharp. A 
barn was struck, and it made a great fire. The storm lasted 
almost two hours. 

That storm ruined poor Annie. When she first heard 
the thunder, she was very uneasy ; but as the lightning grew 
sharp and near, she was in an agony of terror. Then her 
mother knew. that she had told a lie, but she had forgotten her 
foolish prophecy, until Annie clung to her, with her eyes 
wild, and her features distorted with uncontrollable fright; 
and as she clutched her mother’s clothes, as a man that is 
drowning will seize a rope, she begged for life ; she prayed 
that the lightning might not strike her, and she would never 
tell a lie again. The lightning came nearer and nearer, and 
Annie ran through the rooms, from cellar to garret, like a 
mad creature, as indeed she had really become. When the 
barn, which was near her father’s house, was struck, she 
sprang up in the air, and then fell to the ground senseless. 
It would have been well for her if that moment had been her 
last ; but it was not the will of God. Pretty Annie was an 
idiot, and she is one now. The wretched mother was awfully 
punished for her lie to the poor little girl. 

The plan is thoroughly bad. Children soon learn that 
they have been deceived, and the end of it is, that they lose 
all respect for their parents, and they do more bad actions 
than ever, for they are not afraid of punishment that never 
comes. 

Father, Mr. Upton told us that it was not true. He said 
every lie would be punished in some way, but not always so 
that we could see it. 

Well, what happened next ? 

Why, he asked who the boy at the head of the school 
was. I stood up, and told him my name. 




13 


Can you give • us an account of thunder and light- 
ning ? 

Father, I remembered all that you told me about it, and 
I repeated what I knew. Then he asked me if I knew what 
an electrical machine was. I told him about the one we saw 
in Dr. Farnsworth’s house. He asked me some questions, 
and I think that he was quite satisfied with me. At any rate, 
he gave me this book, and told me to keep it as his gift, and 
to read it carefully. Is it a good book, father ? 

My father looked at it. It was the Pilgrim’s Progress. He 
looked very grave, for a minute, bui at last he said that I 
might read it. 

And now, said he, I have given you leave to sit in the 
room to-night. I may do this often, if you deserve it. But 
remember, that when it will be time for you to go to bed, I 
shall tell you ; and do not force me to speak twice. If you 
do, you will be likely to lose your new privilege for some 
time. 

Mr. and Mrs. Sandford were then knocking at the door, and 
I passed an evening which has always seemed to me one of 
the best in my life. 

But what a story-teller you are ! Did you not say, a little 
while ago, that your father had a theory about children.? You 
began to tell it, and you have been talking about your school, 
and about lightning, and about a great many other things be- 
sides. Out with the theory, do. 

Well, as for these digressions, I only have to say, that I 
am now telling about my childish days, and children are very 
apt to fly off in this way. If you do not believe me, try it 
yourself. Begin to tell a story to five or six children, allow 
them to ask all the questions they please, and see how long 
it will take you to tell your story. Children want to under- 
stand every thing as they go along. They seem to know that 
you have in your mind a great many little things, that would 
help them to understand the story better, and they want to 
know what these things are. If they do not know you well 
enough to ask you familiar questions, they will listen patiently 
enough ; but they would like to stop and ask you what this 
hard word means, why such a one acted so, and what this or 
that thing has to do with the story. I remember that my 
father once began to tell me a beautiful story. He began in 
thi? way : — 

In France, about the time of the wicked revolution in • 

2 


14 


that country, General Bonaparte treated the holy father very 
badly. 

Father, where is France } I knew that Bishop Chev- 
erus had gone there, and I thought that it was across the 
Charles River, near Cambridge. Children have odd notions 
about distance. Well, father began to tell me about France, 
and I asked so many questions. about it, that the whole even- 
ing passed very pleasantly. The next day, after he had fin- 
ished his writing, and seemed to have nothing very particular 
to do, I went to him, and put him in mind of the story he 
was going to tell. But, said I, you said something about 
a wicked revolution. What is a revolution, and why was it 
wicked ? 

Then he told me some awful stories about wicked French- 
men that made me feel very badly. Father, said I, will 
not God punish the French people for all this one of these 
days ? These stories about the revolution took three or 
four evenings before father w’as done telling them. Then 1 
remembered the story he had begun to tell. I asked him 
who was the holy father. Was he God ? Then another 
evening was taken up with telling all about the Pope of Rome, 
It was a fortnight before father got through with his story. 

As for my father’s theory about children, I have told it to 
you already. I have repeated that long talk with him to 
show you what it was ; for he always acted to suit it, as I told 
you before. If you had paid some attention to his way of 
treating me, you would know all about it. 

He was talking one evening with a gentleman who had 
come to visit us, as I said a little while ago. I could not un- 
derstand much of what I heard, for they were talking about 
the soul. The gentleman was telling father about foolish 
men who pretend that people have got no souls. They talked 
about the awful death of Tom Paine, in New York. I re- 
member some things they said to this day. Some words 
they used were too hard for me ; but here and there 
an expression, for some reason or other, would remain 
in my mind, and I would catch myself repeating it like 
a parrot, without knowing what it meant. It is curious 
that scarcely a month passes, even now that I am a man, but 
something happens that brings to my mind a word said, or a 
thing done, in my presence, which I did not understand at the 
time, but which is all made clear at last. Here is an in- 
stance : on the evening of which I am speaking, I heard the 


15 


gentleman say, Learning often makes us mad, when we do 
not seek it in the right spirit. Some learned professors of 
science seem to grow more brutish, the more they learn. 
Many a boy that only knows his Catechism is really more 
learned than some professors are. It is a common piece of 
knowledge that God made the world : these fellows dispute 
the fact. When you ask them for proof, they shake in your 
face an o.d bone. You ask what it means, and they say that 
the old bone was alive before the world was made. To 
prove it they think that it is enough to give the bone an old 
rusty Greek name. Men will shake hands with the monkey 
by and by, and call him brother. 

I wanted very much to ask him who these foolish fellows 
were, but I was afraid to interrupt him. The idea of shaking 
hands with a monkey seemed funny enough. But when 
I read Monboddo’s essay many years afterwards, this conver- 
sation returned to my memory. I read that it is all a mis- 
take about our being born of Adam and Eve. Our fathers 
and mothers were monkeys, says this brute in human shape, 
and very ugly monkeys, too. And then I thought how 
true it is, as that gentleman said to my father years ago, 
many a boy, that only knows his Catechism, has more real 
knowledge than these wise professors have. 

I made a man very angry by saying so once. My father’s 
paper had not been left at the door for three or four days, 
and I was sent to the office with a note. There were two or 
three gentlemen there, and one of them called me to him. 

My boy, what is your name ? 

John O’Brien. 

What is your father’s name ^ 

Thomas O’Brien. 

How old are you ? 

Seven years, sir. 

Can you read t 

Yes, sir. 

Where do you go to church ? 

I go to the Catholic church. 

The gentleman looked for a minute as if he were frightened. 
At last he said, — 

I am sorry for that. Don’t you know that it is a super- 
stitious belief ? 

I don’t know what that means, sir 

Well, do not Catholics get their sins pardoned for 

money ? 


16 


No, sir. Our Catechism says that a man cannot be for- 
given unless he is truly sorry, and determined to sin no 
more. 

Why, if you ask the priest, won’t he give you leave to 
lie and steal ? 

I never heard such things before \ 1 heard a priest 

preaching last Sunday, and he said that if we commit sin, 
and don’t repent of it, we shall go to hell. 

Can’t you get your images to pardon you ? 

I do not know what you mean, sir. 

Why, you worship images and pictures, don’t you ? 

I thought that he was making fun of me, and 1 laughed. 

No, sir, said I, I believe that you are making game 
of me. The first commandment says, “ Thou shalthave no 
other Gods but me ; ” and the Catechism says that we are 
taught by this to serve, love, and obey the one, true, and 
living God. 

Come here, my little fellow, said another man. Who 
made you ? 

God. 

Who is God } 

He is Maker and Lord of all things. 

Did you ever see God .? 

No, sir. 

Did you ever feel or hear him ? 

No, sir. 

Then there Is no God. 

O, how I looked at him ! I had heard about such people, 
but I never saw an infidel before. I was going away, but he 
went on, and said. If you can’t see, hear, or feel God, 
there is no such thing. 

But stop, said I ; God has no body ; he is a pure 
spirit. 

Where is God ? he asked. 

God is nowhere. 

What do you mean by that ? 

I remembered father’s explanation of this part of the 
Catechism. Why, I mean that he is in no particular place, 
as every body is. 

Who told you that there is a God ? 

My father. 

Who told him ? 

I don’t know ; his father, perhaps. 


17 


And he must have had some one to teach him. Wher^ 
did the first boys find out that there is a God > 

They learned it from the Catechism. 

Who made the Catechism ? 

The Church. 

And who told the Church that there is a God ? 

Jesus Christ. 

Who is he > 

The Son of God. 

How did he find it out ? 

Why, he is God. ‘ 

Had he a body } 

Yes, sir. • 

See what foolish things you say ! Didn’t you -tell m9 a 
little while ago, that God has no body > 

I began to get a little angry. He is both God and man. 
As God, he has no body ; as man, he was born of the Virgin 
Mary. I learned that in the Catechism. 

Does the Catechism say that a man can be white and 
black at the same time } 

No, sir. 

Well ; and so one cannot be God and man at the same 
time either. 

I did not know what to say to that. The other things 
were easy enough, for they were all in the Catechism. He 
saw that I was puzzled, and he began to talk the most dread- 
ful stuff I ever heard. I could scarcely understand a word 
of it ; but I could make out that he was trying to make me 
believe that there is no God. I got so angry that I did not 
know what to do. Then he advised me not to tell my father 
any thing about what he had said. Keep these things to 
yourself, said he ; you are a bright boy ; do not let peo- 
ple impose upon you with these foolish stories. By and by 
you will get to be wiser than your father is. All the great 
men think as I do about these things. 

Mister, said I, I always tell my father when any body, 
says wicked things to me ; and I wish he knew your name, 
for he would find you out to-morrow, and give you a good 
thrashing. I am sorry that I am so little I cannot do it. 
And I tell you that a boy that knows his Catechism is wiser 
than all your great men. They are a pack of fools. For it is 
the fool that says there is no God. And I ran home as fast as 
I could. I was wrong in' saying so much, but I was so mad. 

2* 


V 


* You know that 1 was sent to Europe, four or five years 
ago, as managing clerk of Galloway, Strain, & Co. I had to 
visit Rome, and I was glad of the opportunity, as you may 
guess. Well, while 1 was there, I met a young gentleman 
whom I had known in Boston ; his name was George Cleve- 
land. We were walking down the Corso, and talking about- 
the people of Rome. 

It is of no use to talk to me, said George ; of course 
educated Catholics do not believe these nonsensical things. 

I suppose that you do not believe. them, for you are an Amer- 
ican, and your church is very different there. You pare off 
Its worst features to suit the ways of the people, and to make 
converts ; but these ignorant peasants are idolaters. I am cer- 
tain of it: I have read it a thousand times. I have heard 
men say it w’ho would rather die than tell an untruth. It is 
the unanimous opinion of wise and learned men. I believe 
that learned Catholics think so too, but they dare not teacb 
the people, because, if they were once enlightened, they 
would never be Catholics. In fact, John, I divide your mem- 
bers into three classes : there are the priests, who are mostly 
infidels ; there are intelligent laymen, like yourself, who 
have mixed so much among Protestants that they are more 
than half Protestant themselves ; then' there are the low Irish, 
and the people of all Catholic countries, who are as su- 
perstitious as they can be. They pay the priest for pardon- 
ing their sins, for getting them out of purgatory, and for 
allowing them to commit murder, and every other crime. 
These are notorious facts, and you cannot deny them. They 
worship images : don’t you see them in every shop, and at 
the corner of every street, with candles burning before 
them : that is proof enough. As for the Virgin, why, they 
think that she is greater than God. Your prayer-books show 
that plainly. 

Very well, said I, I will not say any thing, for in youi 
present state of mind, you would not believe me ; but suppose 
.we tiy the matter practically. 

How ? 

Why, let us stop the meanest looking person w'e meet, 
and see what his notions may be about religion. 

Agreed ! only let me be the spokesman. I will wagei 
any thing that he will turn out a priest-ridden idolater. 

I am not much afraid of it, said I, only give him fair 
play. Remember that the people are Italians ; so do not take 


19 


advantage of their style of speaking. We are of a colder 
nature, and their language sometimes appears to us full of 
exaggeration. 

We had not far to go before we found a person suited to 
our purpose. It was a beggar, and apparently one of the 
poorest of her class. She had a little girl with her, and as I 
saw what she was doing, I told my companion to step noise- 
lessly, so that we might hear what she said. She stood ,at 
the corner of a retired street, where there was a large image 
of Mary. She was teaching the little creature how to pray. 
Clasp your little hands so, said she. Now look at the 
image as if it were alive, and you wanted her to come 
down and kiss you sweetly. There now, repeat after me : 
Mother of my God, delight of my heart, love of my soul, 
my mother, hear us. Put it into the heart of good people to 
give us something to carry to poor, dear, starving father 
Amen, amen. 

I told you so, said George. 

The woman started when she heard the voice, and she 
instantly asked for alms. When she had done talking, her 
lips went on moving, and she looked again at the image. It 
was easy to know what she was whispering so softly. Italian 
pantomime is full of expression. My mother, put it into 
their hearts to give something for the poor father of my 
child. 

George gave her some money, and he got. a dozen bless- 
ings for every copper. 

' My good woman, you are very poor, said he. 

Yes, sir, one of the poorest of the poor. I was nevev* 
any thing else ; but thanks to God and to the Madonna, I have 
got along so far without starving. 

Is it not very trying to you to be so poor ? 

It is, sir ; but then our Lord was poor, the Madonna was 
poor, and so was St. Joseph. We are in good company, for 
they teach us how to bear our troubles as we ought. The 
'Madonna help us, we do not always profit by the exam- 
ple. 

Well, my good woman, do not you envy these princes, 
who roll about in carriages, and have nothing to do ? 

The poor princes have trouble enough. I should not 
know what to do with so much money. And then I would 
be afraid of losing my soul. 

Do you expect k) go to heaven ^ 


20 


I do not deserve to, I know. But my soul is "bought. I 
hope that I shall find mercy. 

Well, why do you not go straight to Christ ? 

I do not understand. 

I mean, why do you worship the Madonna, as if she 
were God ? 

Sir 1 

Do you not think that she is greater than -God ? 

Heavens ! are you a *7eia, sir } 

I have heard people say that you Italians adore the Ma- 
donna, which is against God’s commandment. 

Are you in earnest, sir } 

Never more so. 

Sir, I learned the Catechism when I was a child, and my 
Uttle girl knows it too, — she will tell you. Come here, 
Teresa. Is there more than one God } 

No ; there is but one God, the Father, Son, and Holy 
Ghost, to whom be glory forever. 

What is the Madonna ? 

She is the mother of our Lord, Jesus Christ. 

Is she equal to God > 

Why, no, there is but one God. 

Can she do any thing she pleases ? 

Yes ; she asks God, and he does all she asks him to do. 

Can she do any thing that does not please God } 

Why, no, she cannot do it ; she is too good ; she always 
wishes what God wishes. 

Who made her ? 

The same God that made us. 

Are you satisfied, sir.? 

Then you really do not worship that image up there .? 
Why, I heard you praying to it just now : what good can it da 
you ? 

Sir, said the poor woman, do you love your mother ? 

George’s lip quivered ; his eyes filled with tears at this 
nudden question. His trip to Europe was partly undertaken to * 
divert his thoughts, for his mother had died not long before. 

My good woman, I did love her dearly. 

The Italian mother’s quick apprehension enabled her to 
understand the whole. Tears started to her eyes as she 
begged pardon for speaking of such a thing. 

No offence, good woman, said George ; I like to think 
»f her, and talk about her too. 


21 


Then, sir, excuse me. I see that your brooch is a minia* 
ture : perhaps it is hers. 

It is. 

Will you let me spit upon it, and stamp upon it? 

Woman ! woman ! what do you mean ? 

But the picture cannot feel any thing. Yoiar mother 
will not be hurt when I stamp upon her image. 

Pshaw ! said George, turning away. 

My dear young man, do you think, then, that I will let 
you ill treat this image of my mother in heaven ? She is 
yours too, if you would but own her ! Sir, where is your 
mother now ? 

She is in heaven. 

I hope so. Now, do you think that she loves you yet ? 

No doubt of it. 

Does she know what you are doing now } 

Very possibly. 

Well, do you believe that she wishes you to be happy 
loo, and that she is ready to do all that she can for you yet ? 

It is quite likely. 

Sir, is it not possible that people in heaven pray^ as well 
as praise God ? 

It is. 

For whom do they pray, then? Not for themselves 
surely. Then they pray for us. How can good souls do 
otherwise ? They have suffered what we suffer, and they 
wish that we may enjoy God with them. 

George was silent. 

Now, my dear young man, do not be angry at what I say. 
I am a beggar, it is true, but I am a woman, and’ a mother. 
You honor that image of your mother : shall not we honor 
the image of her who carried the infant Christ in her arms ? 
You think -that your mother yet knows you, loves you, and 
prays for you, in the way that good spirits pray ; so you 
love her still. Now, our mother knows us ; she loves us ; 
she prays for us. Must we not love her dearly ? Dear 
young man, the blessing of Christ be upon you, for your 
charity. May a -drop of the blood that ran out of his heart 
fall upon your soul, and make you know his mother, and 
yours, and mine. 

Ah, said I, how true what my father said years ago 
The child that has learned its Catechism knows more than 
all the wise ones of the earth. What say you, George ? Are 


22 


tne poor Papists priest-ridden idolaters ? You have read it a 
thousand times ; you have heard men say it who would rather 
die than tell a fib. It is the unanimous opinion of our learned 
men. 

Who would have expected such things from a beggar ? 

Well, I hope that you will not echo such foolish calum- 
nies again without taking some pains to examine them. 

Say no more, John ; the old woman has made me feel 
quite dull. By Jove, there is another image of Mary, and I 
was just taking off my hat without knowing it. 

****** 

Johif, I wonder when you will get to your father’s theory 
about children. Your story puts me in mind of Southey’s 
doctor. 

I have been telling it to you, ever since I began. I have 
told it to you a dozen times, in different ways. If I had re- 
lated it simply, you would not have understood it half so well 
as you will now. My object was to make you like his idea, 
before you had heard it told in set terms. 

Well, let us hear it now. 

I told you that my father was talking with a gentleman 
about things which I did not understand very well. I told 
you that some of the words and expressions I heard remained 
in my memory like invisible ink on a piece of white paper, 
until by some chance it became heated, and then there were 
readable characters. 

The common idea about children does not please me, 
said my father ; children are little men. They are com- 
monly treated as if they were little animals. The notion is 
that they are animals, until they come to a certain age, and 
then the understanding, the image of God, the soul, is added, 
by some miracle or other, to the creature, and it begins to be 
a man. And so the little child, that has an immortal soul, 
and feels it, some how, without distinctly knowing it, is 
talked to as if it were a kitten or a puppy. How angry I 
have been sometimes, when I heard parents stuffing their 
children with baby talk. I have longed to say to them. Do 
treat your child as if he had a little spark' of reason. You 
might as well be the father of a monkey, if you deal thus 
with him. Do you not see his eyes open, and open, when he 
sees any thing new ? Don’t you see a note of interrogation 
in every twinkle.? Do you not hear him asking questions 
at every step.? His soul is asking for bread, and it is 


23 


cruel not to give it to him. Do you not notice that Us ques- 
tions are a thousand times more sensible than the ones you 
put to him^ in baby talk. Ay, and oftentimes he puts 
questions which would puzzle wiser men than you or I. 

These people generally see their error only when it is too 
ate. Their children are not animals, and they will not be, 
even when they are treated as if they were. They will get 
tired of hearing so much nonsense. They will at first won- 
der, and then be angry, because they cannot get their par- 
ents to understand them. They will leave off asking ques- 
tions that are never answered ; and within doors, they will 
seem like the soulless things their parents pretend to believe 
they are. They will ask father and mother for nothing but 
bread and butter, kites and marbles ; but when they get 
tired of playing and eating, — and the most thoughtless chil- 
dren will sometimes, — they get into a brown study, and it is 
easy to see that their young minds are laboring with great 
thoughts. 

It is painful to see a child puzzling himself with what are, 
to Ms mind, great mysteries ; which a sensible parent might 
clear up for him, with a very little trouble. Trouble ! God 
forgive me for saying it ; as if it could be a trouble to watch 
a living image of God, and see it grow more and more like 
the original every day ! 

These children ivill be inquisitive, and if their parents 
will not satisfy their curiosity, some one else will. The doors 
of the storehouse are wide open, and whether it be filled 
with wheat or with tares, depends upon who comes first. 
Parents often have to rue their neglect in this matter. It not 
seldom happens that the child gets from unwholesome sources 
certain ideas which are never eradicated. Plants take deep 
root in virgin soil. Try to make your little girl go into a 
dark room after nurse has stuffed .her with stories about 
ghosts ! Try to make your boy pay you a loving obedience, 
if your neglect has made the company of bad boys pleasant 
to him ! 

Children who get any thing like proper training always 
respect their elders. My boy respects me mainly because 
he knows that I can do what he cannot ; and he thinks that 
this greater power comes from the fact that I know more than 
he does ; you will see it at school. No king of the earth 
reigns half so absolutely over his subjects as some boys do 
over their fellows in all childish matters. The schoolboy 


S4 


envies the lad who is at the head of the same class ; he 
respects the best boy of the next higher division ; and as for 
the boys of the first class, he looks upon them as prodigies 
of learning ; and he wonders if he will ever be so wise. It 
is the same in the primary school, in the grammar school, 
and in the college. The great boys maintain their ascen- 
dency over the smaller ones by talking to them frequently. 
Now, a father can make himself the greatest, if not the only 
object of these reverential feelings ; and he can do it with 
little trouble. He has only to win his boy’s entire confidence^ as 
well as his love. The child will then ask his father the thou- 
sand questions he puts to the other boys ; and he would 
rather do it, because he knows that they will be answered 
better. 

My neighbor, Mr. Jones, has a fine boy who is being 
ruined fast. Mr. Jones is one of those men who think that 
the whole duty of a father lies in feeding and clothing his 
hoy ; in providing some amusement for him occasionally, and 
in whipping him, generally when he does not deserve it. For 
he knows nothing of the real sins of his boy William ; he 
never talks rationally with him, never tries to win his confi- 
dence ; and he does not suspect that the boy has given it to 
companions who are teaching him how to walk the first steps 
of the weary road to the prison, or to the scafibld. Both 
parents treat him a§ if he were an animal ; the father, by 
keeping him at a distance ; the mother, by petting him, or 
beating him, as the humor may be. Now, this is the way to 
rear a favorite puppy, but boys are not dogs. I verily believe 
that the young ones know more than they get credit for from 
any of us. The infant that is not yet weaned knows when 
it has its own way with mother. The child begins to talk ; 
and he is allowed to pout, to fret, and to cry, and they, say, 
“ O, don’t cross him ; let him have what he wants ; it will be 
time enough to check him when he gets older. Bless your 
soul, what is the use of putting him in harness now 1 He 
can’t understand what you want to do with him.” 

And so the child grows up, and the astonished parents find 
that they have lost all government over him. They never had 
any. They lay the blame upon his stubbornness, upon any 
thing but their own negligence. The young soul has been 
opening all the time, and it was unnoticed, uncared for, be- 
cause its existence was unknown. And it has received the 
strongest impressions it ever will receive ; it has learned 


25 


things which it will renficmbcr when later lessons are forgot* 
ten. No wonder that all government of it is lost. 

A few months ago, I was clipping some plants that grew 
under the wall which separates Mr. Jones’s garden from 
mine, and I heard footsteps and voices on the other side. 
William Jones and another boy came and sat against the 
wall, and continued their conversation without thinking that 
any one was near. 

I say, Jim, I’m going to play truant. 

Where are you going. Bill .? 

Do you know old Marm Bates’s garden ? 

Yes. 

Well, them peaches are about ripe, I guess. I mean to 
know how they taste. Will you go with me ? 

I don’t know. What makes you go to her tree ? She’s 
a nice old woman ; she tended my mother last winter when 
she was sick, and she wouldn’t take any money for it.. 
There’s Jim Baxter’s garden ; he can spare a peach better 
than the old woman. VVhy don’t you try him ? 

His peaches ain’t ripe. I was looking at ’em this morn- 
ing. They’ll have to suffer some when they be. I’ve got a 
spite against marm, too. , 

Why, what’s the matter } 

Day before yesterday, I stood at her gate, looking at the 
peach-tree. She came out of the house, looking dreadful 
angry, and she told me to go along to sclufol. She called 
me a thief, and she said that she Would have me taken up by 
the constable if she caught me hanging about her house again. 

I mean to give her something to fret about ; I’ll learn her. to 
call me a thief. Now, you’ve got to go with me, that’s a fact. 

But I’m afraid to play truant now, father’ll find it out. 

You see if he does. Didn’t you see me very busy writ- 
ing this morning 

Yes. 

Well, here’s what I was doing.' I was writing a note 
of excuse from my father to the master. 

Mr. Robinson : Please excuse my son William from attend- 
ance at school this afternoon. Plis mother is sick, and he 
must stay at home. Yours truly, William Jones. 

Now, here’s yours : 

Mr. Robinson : My son James is obliged to stay at home 
this afternoon, and you will.e.xcuse him, therefore. 

Yours, <^c., John Lyon. 


3 


26 


Now you know that our master is a new one, and he 
doesn’t know my old ’man’s handwriting. By the time he 
sees another note, it will be all forgotten. I’m great at writ- 
ing notes ; don’t you see how nicely I’ve imitated a man’s 
hand ? 

Yes, that’ll do for master ; but how are you going to get 
the peaches while the old woman is in the house ? 

O, that’s all fixed : she won’t be at home. I was stand- 
ing in Hayward’s door yesterday afternoon, and she met 
another woman right on the sidewalk. She didn’t see me. 
Well, the other woman asked her to drink tea with her this 
afternoon. O no, thank you, says she ; I’ll come some 
other time. I have just booked my place in the stage to Mil- 
ton to-morrow, and I shall stay there till next day. So you 
see that the old woman won’t be there, and the coast will be , 
clear. 

But I don’t want to go this time, Bill. 

You must : I can’t get along without you. If you 
don’t go. I’ll manage to let your father know about them fifty 
cents you took from Nute’s grocery store last week. 

Well, I’ll go ; but it is too bad to cheat Marm Bates out 
of her peaches. And what will your father and mine say if 
they find it out ? 

Pooh ! they’ll never know any thing about it. And Dii 
tell you what it is, Jim, — I don’t care much if my old man 
does I’m tire'd of living at home ; and if father whips mt 
again, I’ll run away. I’m almost twelve years old, anc 
younger fellows than I have gone to sea. Father hardly eve’ 
takes me any where, and he never talks to me as if I knew 
any thing. I’ve asked him things, many a time, about differ- 
ent countries, but I never got any answer ; and that makes 
me mad, because he knows enough. I’ve heard him talking 
to other men about ’em, just as if he always lived in them. 

I haven’t tried to get any thing out of him this good while. 
As for mother, she don’t’ know how to talk about any thing, 
excepting the neighbors. He might have made me like 
books if he had a mind to. I used to like ’em once, but now 
I hate ’em, all but sea stories and novels. I’ve read more 
than fifty novels this year, and I’ve learned some precious 
funny things, I can tell you. 

How did you manage it ? 

O, easy enough : I took the books out of circulating 
libraries ; but I looked out not to give ’em my own name, or 


27 


the place where I live. I got Henry Baxter into a scrap© 
once. I took Charlotte Temple out in his name, and I lost it ; 
so I never went near that library again. Well, the owner 
went to old Baxter’s house to get the book. The old man 
didn’t know any thing about it, and to be sure, Henry didn’t. 
The library man showed old Baxter the name and place, 
written in his book. He paid the bill, and Hen. got a good 
hiding. I heard him telling the other fellows, next day, and I 
was as tickled as a hog eating beans, for I owed him a spite, 
and so did you. It was he that told master that we put pins 
in his seat. 

Where did you get the money } 

Hooked it from mother, fourpence at a time. I came 
pretty near being found out two or three times, but I put a 
good face on it. I can make mother believe any thing. I 
would get up early, and read ; and many’s the book I’ve 
read at school, while you fellows were scratching your heads 
over objective cases and the rule of three. You see I cov- 
ered the novels with blue paper, like my geography and 
grammar. I’ve read ’em right in the room with father and 
mother, and they used to tell me not to study so hard. They 
never looked at my books, so I was safe enough. I’ll tell 
you ; father and mother belong to the Baptist church, you 
know, and they have prayer-meetings in the house once in a 
while. I’ve made father believe that I’m getting religion, 
and he’s going to brag of it to-night at the prayer-meeting. 
It’s nice to cheat the old ones so. They think that they know 
a good deal, but we’re a match for ’em sometimes. It used 
to be hard at first, but I soon found out that they cheated 
themselves more than I did them. If they’d take pains to 
study my face, and my words, they’d find me out easy 
enough ; but they never did, and now it isn’t much use. I’m 
as old as they are, and they think I’m an innocent little 
saint. 

The boys went away, and I heard no more. Next day, 
after dinner, I met Mr. Jones. I felt that it was my duty to 
open his eyes a little, although I was afraid that it would not 
do much good, for the boy is far advanced in wickedness, as 
his own confession shows. Then Mr. Jones is a stiff kind 
of a man, and I did not know how he might like my inter- 
ference. 

Stop, Mr. O’Brien, said the gentleman to my father; 
here is your little boy, listening with all his ears. He 


28 


‘knows Jones's son, doesn’t he ? Will he be tempted to talk 
about this thing to other boys ? ’ 

I colored up, and I felt very angry with him for thinking 
such a thing. My father looked at me, and smiled. 

No, sir, said he. I know my son, and he knows me. 
John, did you ever repeat what you have heard in the house 
libout other people ? 

N«, sir, only twica. You know how it was that I talked 
then. I’ll not be caught so again, I guess. 

I remember. Well, you had some excuse for it. 

And I came and told you all about it, sir, as soon as you 
got home. 

You did. — Well, sir, continued my father, I stopped my 
neighbor at his door. 

Good -morning, Mr. Jones. 

O, Mr. O’Brien, how do you do.? Good evening, you 
mean. It is past two o’clock. 

You are right. Where is your son, Mr. Jones ? 

Why, he is at school. . He started a quarter of an hour 
ago. 

Are you sure that he is there .? 

Sure .? Why, didn’t I see him go .? What do you 
mean .? 

Mr. Jones, are you very busy this afternoon .? 

No, sir. Why do you ask ? 

I have some reason for believing that your boy is not at 
school. Now, if your business be not pressing, I would 
advise you to walk to the school -house, and ask for him. 

Mr. O’Brien, I do not like this. Why suspect my Willy 
in this way .? He is the most studious boy I ever saw. Willy 
would not deceive me, either. He would rather cut his hand 
off, as he says himself. 

Well, Mr. Jones, I am serious. I beg' you to look into 
this matter ; it is more important than you think. If you do 
not find him at school, perhaps the widow Bates will tell you 
where he is. Good afternoon, sir. 

The poor man came to me the next morning, almost heart- 
broken. Mr. O’Brien, said he, I ask your pardon for my 
gruffness yesterday. Alas ! it was all true. I thought at 
first that I would take no more notice of it than to question 
Willy, in the evening ; so I went to the store. But I felt 
uneasy ; and at last I turned, and walked to the school-house. 
The master came to the door. 


29 


T wish to see my son. 

What is his name ? 

William Jones. 

William Jones I Why, he is not here, sir. He brought me 
a note of excuse for this afternoon. It was signed by you. 

A note, signed by me ? 

Yes, sir. 

Sir, I wrote no letter. 

Will you favor me a moment, sir? He went to his 
desk, and came back with a letter. Is this writing yours ? 
he asked. 

It is a little like mine, but I did not write it. So my 
boy gave you this, as coming from me ? 

He did. 

He has deceived us both. Will you do me the favor- td 
punish him severely to-morrow, and to watch him closely 
henceforth ? 

I will, sir. I have had my eye upon him for some time. 
I am afraid that he will give you some trouble, sir. 

Why, he is always at his books, when he is in the house. 

Is he ? Well, he never knows his lessons here. 

That is strange ! Well, sir, I am going to find him. I 
shall exact a severe account for this. Do not spare him, to- 
morrow. 

I will do my part, said the master. Good evening. 

I was going to the widow Bates at once ; but I met a man 
with whom I had business to transact, and he was going to 
New York in the packet which was about to sail. So I had 
to pass the afternoon with him.* God knows that my heart 
was heavy. 

When I went home at night, I tried -to study Willy’s 
face ; but I saw no signs of guilt. He was busy at his 
studies, as I thought. 

William, you are hard at work, I see. 

Yes, sir. 

Studying, William ? 

Yes, sir. 

What book is it ? 

My geography. I’ve got a rea/.hard lesson to get for 
to-morrow. This afternoon I walked nearly up to the head 
in the geography class, and I mean ^to go above ’em all to- 
morrow, if I can. 

There was no change in the boj ’s countenance when he 
3 * 


30 


said this ; and that frightened me, for I thought that only 
very old liars knew how to hide their feelings so well. Could 
he be so hardened ? Or is it possible that he does not know 
the guilt of lying ? If he had turned pale, if he had blushed, 
I would have been relieved somewhat. But no ; his own 
smile was upon his face, and he looked at me so truthfully, 
that I began to doubt whether I had not dreamed the whole 
affair. O my God ! my God ! I am afraid that I have been 
dreaming a great while, and my only son going to ruin in my 
very sight ! And the poor man wept, as only heart-broken 
parents can weep. 

I pitied him from my inmost soul. I had often talked with 
him about children, but he always called me a dreamer. 
Alas ! his boy’s soul has got its character almost formed for 
evil, and the wretched man has only now learned that the boy 
has a soul at all ! He went on. 

William, I have been thinking about what passed at oui 
prayer meeting, last night. 

And so have I, father. 

You know that I mentioned to tne oretnren that you had 
become serious — that you had begun to cry out. What 
shall I do to be saved ? You remember how we prayed 
over you ? 

Yes, father, it was a blessed season. I felt so comfortable. 
When do you think that I can be baptized ? 

And he said this with the same truthful face ! I looked 
into his eyes, and tried, for the first time, I believe, to read 
his soul. I had always thought that a glance would be enough 
to tell the workings of what little mind children have. 1 
thought that he who ran might read. And as I looked 
intently, I saw a mocking devil in his eyes. 

William, bring me that book you are reading. 

Yes, sir. And he got up very composedly, and walked 
towards me, with the book in his hand. 

O father, he said, when he was naif across the room 
I had forgotten ! This afternoon, when school was over 
■John Hathaway asked me to go with him to his father’s 
house, and get some peaches in the garden. I knew that you 
and mother would like a good peach ; so I went with him, 
although you don’t like to have me go with any boy, without 
asking you first. But John Hathaway is a good boy, and he 
never swears. How I hate to hear boys swearing, father ! 
Well, John’s father made me eat as many as I wanted, and 


31 


then he filled my handkerchief, to carry home. I had for- 
gotten all about them, father — they are up in my room. I’ll 
go and get them. They are the finest peaches I ever saw, 
almost. And he turned to run up stairs. 

William, come back ! 

He turned at the door. Father, just let me show you 

them. You don’t know how good they look. 

Williarn, bring me that book. Do not let me have to ■ 
speak again. 

Then his countenance changed. There came over it a 
sullen expression, such as he had often put on in his younger 
days, when he wanted to do something, or have something, 
against our wishes. He had very often gained his point on 
these occasions. He lingered at the door for a minute, and 

then, without raising his eyes to mine, he actually turned to 
go up stairs. I was stupified. 

William, I am thunderstruck. Come back, this instant, or 
[ will whip you to death ! 

Then there came another expression over his counte- 
nance, such as I had never expected to see there. There was 
no mistaking it — it was downright defiance. He glared at 
me for an instant, and then he shouted, I won't ! And 
he ran up stairs. 

I rushed after him, and dashed his door open just as he 
was going to lock it. I seized him by the collar with one 
hand, and I tried to get the book with the other. But he was 
too quick for me ; he threw it out of the window, and then he 
laughed in my face. I dragged him down stairs, while his 
mother ran out and secured the book, which she had seen as 
it fell into the street. And then the boy began to swear ! 
Gracious God ! his horrid oaths made my blood cold, cold in 
my veins. 

I fastened the doors. Now, sir, said I, we have an ac- 
count to settle. Where were you this afternoon } Speak, 
sir ! 

I ’ll be d d if I do. 

What a desperado! Do you know this .letter I asked, 
holding up his note. 

He looked at it, and said nothing. What were you doing 
at the widow Bates’s ? 

At this moment there came 'a loud rap at the door. My 
wife went to open it, and she came back to tell me that Mrs. 
Bates and Constable Reed were outside. I looked at my boy, 


32 


and I saw that he was beginning to be frightened. * Let 
them come in,’ said I to my wife. 

They came in, and sat down. Mr. Jones, said the widow, 
I am sorry to come on such an errand. But I think that 
your boy’s pranks ought to be stopped in some way. He 
has got a bad name in our part of the town, and I have heard 
a man say that he would have complained of him three 
months ago, if it wasn’t for your sake. But I think that it is 
time you should know something about him, or he will soon 
be where he can’t get out when he may want to. I was at 
Milton to-day, and I came home early this afternoon. I’ve a 
good peach-tree, you know, and this year it got along nicely. 
There were some of the best peaches you ever saw upon it 
this morning. I was going to pull a few yesterday, but I 
thought I’d let ’em stay a day or two longer. Well, when I 
came home, this afternoon, lo and behold, half my peaches 
were gone. I sat right down, and cried like a child ; for I 
had made fifty calculations about them, and I knew just what 
I would do with every peach. They had been bespoken by 
Dr. Parkman, every one of them, almost ; and I didn’t want 
to disappoint such a good customer, I can tell you. When I 
had sat and cried a spell, a little girl came in and said that 
Miss Strong, a sick lady over the way, wanted to see me. I 
went, and she told me how she was sitting at her window, and 
saw your boy and another go into the garden, and carry off 
two great baskets full of my peaches. She was all alone in 
the house, and she wasn’t able to go down stairs ; so she 
couldn’t do any thing. I went right to Mr. Reed here, and 
told him all about it. I wanted to have your boy taken up. 
Excuse me, Mr. Jones; but it’s too bad for poor folks to be 
treated this way. Mr. Reed heard my story, and, says he, 
Mrs. Bates, I know that you are a kind-hearted woman, arid 
you would not get any one into trouble, if you could help it. 
Now, I’ve had my eye on that boy a good while, and I think 
that he would do better if he hadn’t such bad companions. I 
know Mr. Jones ; he is a good man, and I should be sorry to 
do any thing against him. 

So "should I, Mr. Reed. But what about my peaches ? 

Mrs. Bates, if you get all your peaches again and if Mr. 
Jones promises to look after his young scamp, wouldn’t you 
let him off, this time ? 

Well, I will, Mr. Reed, since you ask me. 

Very well, then. I will go with you to Mr. Jones. He 
cOok me first to old Farthingale’s grocery. I didn’t know 


33 


what for, until I lookea ai a basket in the corner ; and behold 
it was full of nice peaches, just like mine. 

Mr. Reed, says I, how comes it that, when any thing is 
stolen, you always seem to know just where it is .? 

Mr. Reed winked, and spit, just as he does when any 
thing is in the wind, but didn’t answer. Mr. Farthingale, 
says he, did you not get these peaches from young Jones ? 
Well, I guess I did, Mr. Reed. They belong to Mrs. 
Bates. The boy stole them, this afternoon. Do tell ! 
Yes, sir. Of course, you’ll send them right back to her 
house to-night. But I’ve paid for them. That’s nothing ; 
they belong to her. But I think I can secure to you the 
money. Will you send ’em, on them terms ? Mr. Far- 
thingale agreed to it, and so we have come here. You’ve 
got the whole story now, Mr. Jones ; only I’d advise you to 
look sharp after that boy, for it isn’t every one that would let 
him off so easily. 

I paid Mr. Reed the money for the peaches, and thanked 
them both for their kindness. After they went away, I 
turned to William. Now, sir, you are found out. You 
are a finished liar. You are a thief. You are a hypocrite. 
What a character you have earned for yourself already ! 
What have you got to say ? Here my wife broke out. 
Husband, says she, you don’t know all. Don’t you remem- 
ber how I’ve missed little sums from my drawer, all along 
this last year Well, you know that we suspected Nancy, 
and I hinted it at her so often, that she got mad, last week, 
and went away, you know. Now, I’d put by ten dollars to 
pay for my bonnet, and it’s gone. I’m afraid that awful boy 
has taken it. He’ll break my heart, that’s what he will. 
Here is the geography he was studying so hard. What do 
you think about his reading such books as these ? 

I took the volume, and what do you think it was, Mr. 
O’Brien .? It was a vile novel, one of the worst of its class. 
To think that he could read such books in my very sight ! I 
stripped him, and gave him such a flogging as he never had. 
I treated him to another this morning. To punish him more, 
I put his sister’s clothes on him, and tied him to the bed-post. 
He felt that more than he did the cowhide, L believe. I have 
promised him a beating every morning and nig'ht for a week, 
and he shall have it. Now, Mr. O’Brien, how did you know, 
yesterday, that he was not at school ? 

Then I told him all about the. conversation I had heard 


34 


between the boys, and I begged him to consider well the re- 
markable words of his son, about the treatment he had always 
got at home. Now, Mr. Jones, I have tried to persuade you 
often. You begin to believe me now. I have always told 
you that your boy had not only a soul, as your dog there nas, 
but also understanding. It is the understanding of a child 
but it is understanding, withal. You are now reaping the 
bitter fruit of your neglect. — Then 1 told him what 1 thought 
was the best way to manage the boy, and he went away, 
wretched enough. 

Three days after, he came to me, weeping like a child. 
He could scarcely speak to me ; but after a moment he man- 
aged to say, My boy has gone ! 

Gone ! where ? 

When he became a little calmer, he told me that he 
could not tell. He had sent him to bed, as usual, and during 
the night the boy had gone. He could not get out by the 
door, for it was locked on the outside ; so he tied his sheets 
and blankets together, and escaped by the window. 

I promised the miserable father that I would do all in my 
power to find his son ; but it was not until four days had 
passed that one of our men came to me, about nine o’clock 
at night, and told me that a boy answering the description 
had been seen that day at a sailors’ boarding-house, in Ann 
Street. I sent for Mr. Jones, and we started off. We made 
strict inquiries at the house, but we could not get much news. 
A boy of that appearance had certainly been there that day. 
He was in company with other sailors, and he was a little 
drunk. That was all we could ascertain. The next day, PJr. 
Jones went to all the shipping offices, and, towards night, he 
found that two boys, one quite answering to William, had 
sailed the evening before, in the brig Comaquid, bound for 
Genoa. Further information might be had at the office of 
Lyon & Co., Long Wharf. Mr. Jones flew to the office. 

Did the Comaquid sail last night ^ 

It did. 

Was there a boy named William Jones on board 

The clerk looked at a list. No, sir, there was not. 

Mr. Jones could learn nothing more. This happened 
about four months ago. Yesterday, Mr. Jones received this 
letter, which he sent me to-day, that I might read it. He 
makes no secret of the matter, so I can let you know what is 
written in it. Here is the letter : — 


35 


Western Islands, Oct. 1, 1826. 

Dear Father and Mother : I am in for it now, and 
[ can’t help myself. When I ran away that morning, I went 
right down to Long Wharf, for I meant to jump on board 
some vessel, if I could, and sail off, before you could catch 
me. I met Bill Jenkins there ; he is a fellow I used to know, 
and he ran away from his father, too. I told him what I 
wanted, and he said that there was a first-rate chance. His 
captain wanted a boy, and he would sail in a week, or less 
time. So he took me to his boarding-house, and kept me 
there till we sailed. I saw the captain, and we told him that 
I was an orphan boy, with nobody in the world to take care 
of me, and so I wanted to go to sea. Bill and I made up 
that story together. ,The captain asked a good many ques- 
tions, but finally he believed me, and agreed that I should go 
with him. Bill took me to some curious places, two or three ' 
nights, and I didn’t behave very well, for they made me 
drunk. I’m sick of my bargain, but I cannot help myself. 
The captain is good, but I have to work, and do not get good 
things to eat. I wish I was back again at home. Father, I 
know I have done wrong ; but I believe that I would not have 
been so bad, if you had looked sharper after me. I found 
that I could cheat you and mother in a good many little 
things, and so I was led on from one thing to another. But 
it is all over now. 

I must stop, because our boat is going to the other vessel 
that is going to America. .0, if I could go in her ! 

William Jones. 

Poor Mr. Tones has sown the wind, and he is reaping the 
whirlwinck There are parents who swear before their chil- 
dren, and then wonder how it is that their little ones curse. 
They take no pains whatever to bring up their offspring, and 
then they expect that the boys and girls will grow into good 
men and women. They set them every bad example, and 
beat the children for doing what they see their parents do. 

If they have flowers, they will water and weed the beds ; 
but they let their young ones grow up without any care ; and 
when the faiior begins to suspect that his boy is going to have 
a soul pret/y noon, and that it is time to begin a course of 
training for it, the boy has found, long before, that he has 
one, and he has used his knowledge in a way that would 


36 


make the father stare, if he only suspected it. It is a bad 
thing for a child to learn this fact before his father does. 

No, man is created a living soul. And the education of 
that soul can hardly begin too soon. The first lessons are 
easy to be taught, and they are never forgotten by the grown 
man. 

But there is some danger of falling into the opposite mis- 
take, which lies in treating a child as if he were all soul. It 
is true that there is a spiritual substance to be educated, but 
there is also an animal nature to be trained. It is a groat 
error to neglect either of them. Attend only to the first, and 
your child will grow up a brute ; think only of the secoiid, 
and he will be a sickly plant, that was not meant either fir 
heaven or for the earth. You know Mr. Watkins, don’a 
you ? 

I am slightly acquainted with him. 

Well, he is trying to raise a plant of this kind. He say^ 
that his boy is only six years old. The child’s stature telk 
the same story ; but the expression of his countenance is that 
of a man of forty, who had come into this world by mistake, 
and was heartily tired of it. Mr. Watkins brought the bo) 
to my house, not long ago, to show him off, I suppose. He 
began to talk about children, and my boy here listened with 
all his ears, just as you see him listening now. Young Wat- 
kins paid no attention to us ; he stared about the room with a 
lack-lustre eye, as if he knew that he was not in his right 
world, and would thank some one who could tell him where 
he did belong. 

Charles, said Mr. Watkins. 

The little fellow got up, and stood before his father, with 
folded arms. 

Let Mr. O’Brien hear how much you have le&rned the 
last week. 

My boy looked at him, and at me, with a confident smile, 
that seemed to say that I need not be afraid. When 1 
looked at the little sickly creature, with a face now screwed 
into a laughably wise expression, I thought of what bears have 
to suffer before even heated iron can make them dance. 

Charles, what is the capital of China } 

Pekin, squeaked the automaton ; and then he told what 
were the capitals of many other countries. I ventured a 
question. 

Charles, what is the capital of Massachusetts ? 


37 


A pause, a puzzled look at father, and a squeak. Nes- 
cio ! I don’t know. My boy, here, was staring hard at him 
all the time. Then Mr. Watkins touched another key. 

Charles, what are the boundaries of Persia ? 

A prolonged squeak, pitched in double G sharp, and run- 
ning like the alarm of a clock, without any pause, and all in 
the same tone. ‘ Persia is bounded on the north by Tartary, 
• the Caspian Sea, and Georgia, on the south by the Arabian 
Sea, on the east by Hindostan, and on the west by the Pei'- 
sian Gulf and Turkey in Asia. 

His father asked him some more questions, all of which 
he answered in the same way. My boy then stopped look- 
ing at him, and stared at me, to know what it all meant, and 
why he did not know as much as a boy younger than him- 
self by a year. 

Charles, said I, what are the boundaries of Boston } 

A whine. — Nescio ! I don’t know. 

You mean that you have forgotten, said his father. 

‘Then Mr. Watkins thrummed on the natural theology 
key. Charles, I want to ask you a very hard question. 

Charles looked like Solomon in petticoats. 

Prove to me that God exists. 

Arid Charles whistled, — If anything exists, it must be 
an effect, and it must have a cause ; but something does exist, 
and therefore there must be a first cause, which is God ; 
therefore God exists. 

When he finished a sentence, he brought up with a jerk, 
like the sound of an upper key of an organ when the wind is 
suddenly stopped. And he said all these things with just 
about as much knowledge of their meaning as the organ has 
of its own tones, and his face was as soulless as the face of a 
wall would be if somebody were to whistle the same words 
through a crack in it. 

Charles, said I, who is God } 

Charles looked at his father doubtfully. Then, as if he 
thought that I had not heard him, he repeated his answer. If 
something exists, 

My boy had now got close to Charles, and was looking 
into his mouth as if he were trying to see the wheels of this 
talking machine. When he heard me ask the last question, 
he looked relieved, as if he understood, at last, a little of 
what was going on. I asked him if he knew who is God. 

He is the Maker and Lord of all things. 

4 


38 


Now, Charles, said Mr. Watkins, prove that the soul is 
immortal. 

Again the crack in the wall opened, and whistled, — The 
desire of immortality is natural and invincible, but a natural 
and invincible desire has a real object ; therefore the soul is 
immortal. 

Charles, I asked, what must we do to save this immortal 
soul } 

The crack did not open ; the wall looked blank. Answer 
this question, said I to my boy. 

We must worship God by faith, hope, and charity ; that 
is, we must believe in him, hope in him, and love him, with 
all our heart. John looked at me long enough to answer this, 
and then peered again into the other’s mouth, to see what 
was inside. 

Charles, one question more. What is the definition of 
man 

Est animal rationale ! He is a rational animal. 

My John then passed his hand gently over Charles’s face, 
to see if he could feel any thing strange. Then he drew 
nearer to me, and whispered. Father, ask him if a hoy is a 
rational animal. 

What do you think of my son } asked Mr. Watkins. 
Does he not promise something } 

I think that he does. He promises to fill an early 
grave, or to have nothing left worth living for. He is a hot- 
house plant, and it is plain that his growth is forced. I beg 
you to remember his last answer. It is true that man is ra^ 
tional ; but it is just as true that he is an animal. You will 
not let Charles bo an animal : nature insists that he shall be, 
and it is plain that she is even now having her own way. 
She will hurry him out of the world, to save trouble to all 
concerned. I do not blame you for treating your child as if 
he had a reasonable soul, but because you give his young 
understanding food fitted only for educated intellects. The 
food of the body varies with the age of the eater. Every 
body eats ; but the child wants milk, while the man craves 
meat. And then Mr. Watkins went away a little angry a1 
my plain talking. 

It was getting late, and the gentleman who was spending 
the evening with my father went away. It was a pleasant 
evening to me, and I was very thankful to father for letting 
me enjoy it. Now I have told you about my father’s theory 


39 


concerning children, and I have shown you how he put it in 
practice. I will not ask you what you think of it, because 
you are getting sleepy, and men in that state are apt to be 
cross. A cross critic is my horror ; so, good-night. 


CHAPTER II. 

John’s ideas take a wrong direction. — he gets ac- 
quainted WITH DEACON MILLS. 

My father was an Irishman. He came to America in 
1816, bringing with him health, honesty, and a little money. 
He landed at Halifax, and there he saw my mother, who 
was a native of that place, and married her. Shortly after, 
he removed to Boston. He soon succeeded in getting a good 
situation, and he held it until he died. He saved his money, 
and before long was noticed as a man who promised to do 
well in the world. I wish that he had never saved more 
than enough to keep him out of debt ; for then he would 
perhaps be living now. 

I have told you about some of his ideas so far as they con- 
cerned me. Before I speak of his death, I must notice some 
other ways and notions of his, because they have exerted a 
very considerable influence over my thoughts, my sayings 
and doings. 

I have been a bad boy, but I believe that I never swore by 
the holy name of God. I do not think that I ever broke the 
second commandment, in its first and direct sense. I have 
to thank my father for so much of sin left undone. It is no 
slight matter, for the almost universal violation of this law 
does not make the act less offensive before God. Neither 
is it less wicked, because we commit it without much scru- 
ple. We curse daily, and we forget to-day the curses of 
yesterday. But unless we amend, we shall find each curse 
written against our names in God’s book. Every oath is 
a stone thrown upon a pile, and when we die, we shall be 
sorely affrighted to see how great the heap is. 

I never heard a profane expression in my father’s house 


40 


This is one great reason why I have never been addicted to 
this abominable habit. It is very strange that some parents 
expect their children to avoid using words which they always 
hear at home. Let your children hear you pray, and they 
will pray too. Swear in their presence, and it will be a 
miracle of grace if they do not outswear you. Why, your 
children learn their language from you. No doubt that lan- 
guage was originally revealed ; but, once revealed, we learn 
it from our elders. And the first words we learn are never 
forgotten. Solomon said well, that if you train a child in the 
way he should go, when he is old he will not depart from it. 
It may be that he will forget, for a time, his early lessons. 
But they are too deeply rooted to be entirely neglected, or 
forgotten. Not unfrequently the sinner, who has been proof 
against entreaties, warnings, and threats, is moved by the 
grace of God arousing and strengthening a remembrance 
of his early, well-spent years. 

So my father’s precepts were worth something, because 
he enforced them also by his example. Then he was very 
nice about my companions. He selected them for me, and 
he easily taught me to be as nice as he was. When any 
body spoke to me, he was sure to know it. He took such 
pains to make me hate the vice, that I soon came to think 
that it was the greatest of sins, and as disgraceful to the man 
as hurtful to the Christian. I was once sent by him to carry 
a message. 

What the devil do you want with me } was the first word. 

I ran home with my eyes starting from their sockets. 

What is the matter, John } 

0 father ! 

. Well? 

Such a wicked word as Mr. O’Hara said ! 

Ah ! w’ell, come here, and tell me what he said. 

1 went to him, and after looking at the roof to see if it was 
not getting ready to tumble as soon as I said the word, I 
whispered in his ear. Father, he actually said devil ! 

My father opened his eyes as wide as mine, and spoke 
in an under tone, as if he were thunderstruck at the enor- 
mity. I certainly thought that some judgment would over- 
take Mr. O’Hara for his wicked word. 

I do not know that it was very judicious to encourage such 
expectations ; perhaps it would not answer in all cases ; but it 
did the work for me. I have been for years in the society of 


41 


swearers ; I have herded with men who cursed almost with 
everj breath, but 1 have never lost the feelings which wer^ 
carefully aroused and nourished in my soul by my parents. 
The bad example of twenty-three years has not deadened 
the force of the combined example and precept given me 
during the first seven years of my life. 

The housemaid one day began to plague me s-bout some 
little matter, and she quizzed me so unmercifully that I be- 
came more angry than I ever was before. Mother was there, 
and 1 did not dare to be very saucy, although I was sorely 
tempted to it ; the more so, as 1 thought that mother ought not 
to laugh at me when I was so vexed. I fancied that if I 
could call her devil^ I would be thoroughly revenged. So I 
ran up stairs, full of venom ; but when I got into my room, 
I was afraid to say the word there. I went into the street, 
but even there I dared not breathe it, lest some bird would 
whisper it in father’s ears. It was almost school time, and I 
started off early ; mother thought that I wanted to be first at 
school ; I knew that I wanted to find some lonely place, where 
I could ease my mind. I went to the common, and ran to 
the top of the highest hill. Then, after looking carefully 
about, to see that no living creature was near, I sputtered 
the wicked word, and then took to my heels as if the spirit 1 
had named were in close pursuit. I felt as if I were thor- 
oughly revenged ; so I was satisfied. Going home, I said to 
myself. Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mary were sick in 
bed. She loas very sober, and looked at me mournfully. 
O ho ! thought I, you have got it, then ! I found, after- 
wards, that she looked sorrowful because her pie meat had 
soured, and she had to make a new mess ; and she looked 
at me so, because she wanted me to help her chop it. If 
father had looked sharply at me that evening, he would have 
seen from my face that something great had happened.^ But 
he was very busy for three or four days, and by that tinie I 
had forgotten the whole matter. ^ . 

Father ! father ! I shouted, one afternoon, as I ran to him. 
Well } 

Bill Thompson 

Stop, sir. Who is Bill Thompson } 

William Thompson,! mean, father. 

Well, you may go on, now. ^ 

He’s got two rabbits at his house, and he stopped me this 

afternoon, and asked me to go and see them. He was very 
* 


42 


civil, and he said he was sorry that I did not choosse to play 
ji^ith him sometimes. 

What did you say to him ? 

I told him that I could not, without asking you first. Then 
ne tried to get me to go with him ; and he said that you need 
not know any thing about it. I told him that I could not, and 
so I came iiome. May I go and see them to-morrow ? 

Did you not tell me that William plays truant some- 
times ? 

Yes, sir, he did yesterday ; and this morning he got an 
awful licking for it. 

Was not William one of the boys we saw last week, in 
Hanover Street, as we were going along ? 

Yes, sir. He was swearing dreadfully, you know. 

Did you like the looks of the boys who were with him ? 

No, sir. 

Very well. Now do you want to keep company with this 
William Thompson } 

No, sir, I don’t ; and that is a fact. But, said T, after a 
pause, I would like to see his rabbits. 

That is well enough. But now, answer me truly. Would 
you like to have him boast that he had got you into his com- 
pany } 

No, sir. 

Would he not boast of it, if he could get you to go with 
him } 

Well, father, perhaps he would. 

And don’t you think that after you have gone with him 
once, you will find it a little hard to refuse him when he asks 
you again, as he certainly will ? 

I said nothing. Father’s questions had taught me a new 
lesson. 

Now, John, I think that you understand me thoroughly. 
And I place so much confidence in you that I will leave it all 
to yourself. You may go if you think that it is safe. 

How proud a child feels, when he is appealed to in this 
way ! Father knew well enough what I would answer. 

I will not go with William Thompson, sir. 

That is right. ^ Now, I will tell you some news. A cara- 
van of animals is coming to Boston to-morrow ; and next 
week we will see them. You will be more pleased than you 
would be with two rabbits. 

I have said that father was very nice about my companions. 


43 


He always selected them himself. There were only three 
families where I could visit, and play with the children ; and 
I could never invite any others to come to our house. These 
were always welcome. Father knew that I could not help 
meeting other boys at school, and in the street, but he care- 
fully instructed me how to behave on such occasions. I was 
never to be rude or uncivil ; I was to do a kindness when- 
ever a chance occurred, but I was never to make any partic- 
ular acquaintance. He would not allow me to be very famil- 
liar with even good boys, at the school, because he did not 
know them ; and he was afraid that I would not always be 
able to distinguish between a really good boy, and one who 
only appeared to be. For the rest, he thought that lie could 
do no more than get me in the way of telling him all that 
had happened during the day. This was one great reason 
why he always tried to win my full confidence. When a 
strange boy, or a bad one, spoke to me, I would always have 
a story for father at night. 

But all the vigilance in the world will never make a mixed, 
school quite safe for a Catholic child. Catholic morality 
gives fixed rules, not only for acMons, but for thoughts and 
words/ It teaches that a man can damn his soul for a vile 
thought, harbored wilfully, as well as for an action which will 
answer to that thought. Protestant morality, if there be such 
a thing, is legal — forensic. It pays attention mainly to the 
outside, to the surface of things. It is possible that some 
Protestants will say that God will punish bad thoughts, as 
well as bad deeds. But they have no means of correcting 
merely inward wickedness. Among Catholics, the matter is 
simple enough. In the first place, the habit or gift of faith, 
which is infused into the soul at baptism, helps a child to 
understand that certain thoughts are wrong. Then there is 
the sacrament of penance, in which sins of thought are dis- 
covered, and the proper remedy is applied to them. But the 
child of Protestant parents enjoys neither of these advantages. 
It he ever comes to know that he can commit deadly sin by 
mere wilful thoughts, — and he seldom does, having no one 
to tell him so, — it is only when he is grown; and then the 
mind has too often become incurably filthy, — it has become 
the chosen home of seven devils. He has not the gift of 
faith, for, as a general thing, he is imbaptized. Then he has 
no remedy for such thoughts when he does come to the 
knowledge of their sinfulness ; because, against his half* 


44 


formed wish to get rid of them, there is a confirmed habit, 
the want of habitual grace, and the absence of penitential 
grace, which is not ordinarily given, unless through the sacra- 
ment of penance, about which sacrament he knows nothing. 

Of course, I do not suppose that this is the state of every 
Protestant mind. But it is certein that Protestantism, assuch^ 
gives no security against a like state of the soul. It has 
nothing of its own which can enable it to meet such a condi: 
tion of things when it appears, and nothing to destroy the 
habit, when it is formed. Assuredly a pure-minded Protes- 
tant is not so because of any thing which he finds in Protes- 
tantism.^ The causes which may enable him to cultivate 
inward purity are various, but 1 have no time to speak of 
them now. 

On the other hand, I by no means say that all Catholics are 
what they ought to be in this matter. But it is certain that 
the purity enjoined in Catholic morality is very different 
from a virtue which belongs to merely natural ethics. The 
.Catholic always finds in his Church abundant means for 
checking this sin of impurity in the beginning, or for destroy- 
ing it, when, for a time, it has polluted the soul. And ex- 
perience has taught many persons that the Catholic who 
mixes most with Protestants is most likely to be led astray in 
these things. It does not surprise me at all that a Catholic 
who seldom or ever prays, fasts, or confesses, should be 
foultongued, or rotten with inward uncleanness. It would 
surprise me if he should not be. But a Catholic who is 
attentive to his duties, and who is at the same time a white- 
washed sepulchre, is a rarity that outdoes any thing else in 
the devil’s museum. A Christian may fall ; who doubts it ? 
but he will get up again. 

Stop ! I would like to ask a question. 

Well, James, what is it } 

You won’t be angry ? 

No. 

Well, what do you know about the thoughts of other peo- 
ple ? Do men have windows to their souls ? Are you judg- 
ing of others by yourself } 

Perhaps I am. And if I be, I can say that I have liyed 
under both systems, and I have some knowledge of their real 
value. Then human nature is pretty much the same every 
where ; since the fall, the heart is corrupt, let your human- 
ists, and your friends of progress, say what they will. By 


45 


the way, I believe in progress. The evil tree brings evil 
fruit. So does the evil root. Take poor human nature, 
bring out all there is in it, and you will have a progress of 
wickedness that would tickle the devil, as I have no doubt it 
does. That is the reason why our age, in the hands of infi- 
dels, is so much more wicked than the dark ages. But to 
return. 

Inward wickedness will come out, in some way, and at 
some time. In fact, it does appear always, only you often 
let it pass without notice. Out of the abundance of the heart 
the mouth speaketh. Yes, and out of the same abundance, 
the /ace looketh. A man who carries hell in his heart can- 
not always prevent its fire from flashing in his eyes, and its 
smoke from blackening his face. Did you ever notice that 
children always seem to know who likes them, and who does 
not ? Affected caresses may impose upon the parents, but 
they seldom deceive the young ones. Now, all this is true 
of any sin ; but it is especially true of that sin which more 
than any other changes the man into a vile beast. 

The Bible was a school-book in my time, and we used to 
read it at class. Many of my schoolmates can say that they 
read more Scripture in school than they have since. The fact 
is, they lost all respect for the holy book. Not precisely be- 
cause it was coupled in their minds with the idea of a task, 
although that circumstance went for something. But the 
sacred volume was treated badly. Every body knows that 
there are very many passages in it which no Protestant min- 
ister would venture to read aloud to his hearers ; no father 
to his family. I say not whether this state of things be right 
or wrong ; I only note the fact. Well, there were plenty of 
boys who made it their business to pick out these passages, 
and when it was play time, they would make merry over them. 
Now, do you think that the state of mind which prompted 
these children to do these things would stop there, and go no 
farther? It would be a strange thing if it did ; and, in fact, 
it did not. There was no check whatever, for the children 
were by themselves ; the older boys commonly added fuel to 
the flame ; the master never knew what was going bn, and 
the parents never suspected it. The. children would not let 
their fathers into the secret, of course. Some were malicious, 
like William Jones ; some were ignorant and ashamed ; some 
did not know how to tell it. And so the cancer spread. The 
young ones were quite familiar with sin ; they thought of it ; 


46 


they talked.of it ; as far as they could, they did it ; arid they 
were fully prepared to plunge into it, when the age of per- 
petration came. 

Of course, every sheep was not so infected. But who does 
not know that one vicious lad will corrupt half a dozen others, 
almost beyond redemption, before the mischief is discovered. 
Who does not know that these young sinners are unspeakably 
knowing in their choice of time and opportunities. Here is a 
sample of their cunning. Thomas and George were in the 
same school. One was ten, and the other was twelve years 
old. They were very fair boys to look at, but they were two 
apples of Sodom. The eldest could teach wicked gray- 
beards something new. Now, the master and the parents had 
ascertained that the boys were sold to Satan, and every pre- 
caution was taken concerning them, lest they should corrupt 
others, or themselves any more. They were accompanied to 
school by trusty persons, and they were watched when in 
company with other children. But the eldest had devised a 
scheme for running away together, and it was a cunning one, 
only it was very difficult to communicate it to the other. At 
last he had it. He wrote on a little morsel of paper : ask for 
a pen. He rolled it into a tiny ball, and when the master 
was looking another way, he threw it across the room. 

Presently George stood up. 

Master, I want a pen. 

Then Thomas started to his feet. 

Master, here is one ; I don’t want it. 

The master took the quill, and carried it to George. The 
hollow of the quill contained a note, in which Thomas de- 
tailed his plan, and told George to make a certain sign if he 
understood it, and another if he agreed to it. 

The next week the two boys disappeared. 

George is now in the state’s prison. Thomas died even as 
he lived. 

Now, who can say that his boy will escape these things } 
Who can feel safe, when his child is exposed to such deadly 
peril } _ If he do escape, it is not because his parents have 
saved him, but it is because an angel of God has blessed 
the lad. 

Mr. Jones represents, in this matter, a very great majority 
of parents. They think that their children are innocent ; 
sometimes they look upon them as little saints ; and not un- 
frequently the innocent little saints, when they get together. 


47 


Doast how they have cheated the old ones ; and tell how they 
have learned a precious lot of things, when father and mother 
thought that th^ were patterns of goodness and of innocence. 

It is easy to see where these things will lead society. It 
is not improbable that most modern cities, counting even this 
pious city of Boston, if they were treated with even-handed 
justice, would become the beds of as many Dead Seas ; they 
would sink, with Sodom and Gomorrah, into hell. We may 
guess at the magnitude of the secret wickedness of this city, 
by the amount of what appears in open day, and by the hold- 
ness with which it appears. You see it in the loathsome con- 
tents of the outside of the so-called independent press. You 
see it in the crowds that run to hear such filthy monsters as 
Leahv ; in the sale of his pamphlets, which are brought into 
private houses because only men can attend his obscene 
lectures. You see it in the rush to our halls of justice when 
certain causes are before the court ; and in the prominence 
given them in the aforesaid independent papers. What a lie 
is that of their independence ! It is like lucus a non lucendo. 
I scarcely know which species of slavery is the most debas- 
ing, — slavery to the mob, or slavery to the devil. You see 
it in the vile books, as readable as romances^ in which the 
scientific agents of hell dress up physiology, as they call it, 
in a shape calculated to make the soul a nest for every un 
clean bird. You see it when respectable young women say 
that it is quite right to read these damnable filthinesses, be- 
cause “ a knowledge of such things might sometimes save us 
health and life ! ” , 

Now, here is a small part of what is done in broad daylight ; 
and done, too, without the faintest appearance of a blush. 
The men and women who do these things were school- 
children when I was a schoolboy. And they learned many 
of their first lessons at school. 

Now, in Protestant schools, all this is inevitable. Catholic 
parents should know it, and make some provision against the 
danger. I do not say that every man ought to regard his son 
as infected ; but I do think that every father who sends his 
child to these schools ought to know that there surely are in 
them some who are old in crime, while they are very young 
in years ; and that his boy or girl will surely be exposed to 
peril, and may perish in it. Do not think that they are too 
young to serve the devil. I have heard ear-splitting blasphe- 
mies vomited by boys only five years old. I have heard 


48 


expressuns from little creatures that almost make common 
indecencies sound like chaste language. What is worse, these 
words cling to the memory. I have forgotten all the sermons 
I ever heard ; I have retained few good words which have 
been said to me ; but the remembrance of these outrageous 
things is as fresh as if I heard them yesterday. I have heard 
persons, while laboring under the insanity frequently induced 
by typhus fever, vomit impurities that drove every body from 
their bedside. These were often persons of pure manners 
and language ; but the vile expressions they had heard in their 
younger days had cleaved to the memory, and they issued 
forth when reason had fled. 

My father was very particular about his own company, as 
well as about mine. Here was his great error. Not that 
he was wrong in selecting our associates with great care, for 
that was well enough. But these were Protestants, all of 
them. He was a proud man, and he thought (God help him) 
that Irish Catholic boys were not the right sort of companions 
for me. This mistake of his cost him dearly, and it nearly 
ruined me. He taught me the Catechism, but this was nearly 
the only Catholic influence which was brought to bear upon 
my life. I never went to catechism, seldom to church. 

I was a pretty good Bible scholar, for my years. I re- 
member that I received quite a premium from Dr. Jenks, 
after I had read it, from Genesis to Revelation. I read it a 
second time before I was eight years old. I always went to 
Protestant Sunday schools, and generally to their churches. 
The only protect I ever made, as a Catholic child, to any 
thing 1 heard there, was against their mode of saying the 
Lord’s prayer. When they recited, “ forgive us our debts,” 
I said, “ forgive us our trespasses.” When they went on 
with, “ for thine is the kingdom,” I would not say a word. 
For the rest, I heard sermons against Popery, without caring 
much about it, and without reflecting that I was nearly in- 
terested. I devoured the books in their libraries, and Bunyan 
taught me to hate giant Pope as well as giant Pagan. Pierre 
and his Family made me love the poor Waldenses, and get 
quite angry with their idolatrous persecutors. And so I read 
stories about wicked and lazy monks living in great con- 
vents, and about good Christians roasted alive by awful In- 
quisitors. The effect which these books had upon my mind 
is not yet effaced ; and I am sometimes reminded of them in 
a way that makes me laugh, in spite of my uneasiness and 


49 




vexation, I shall have occasion to return to this matter 
again. 

Father, said I, one day, why do you not let me go to Cat- 
echism ? 

He looked at me in a strange way, for a minute, without 
saying any thing. Then he answered. My son, I sometimes 
tell you to do things without giving you any reason whatever. 
Do you not always obey me willingly ? 

I do, father ; that is, I do almost always. Sometimes I 
think that you tell me to do odd things. I thought so yes- 
terday. * 

What do you mean, John > 

You know I always go to school by the Common. Yester- 
day you told me to be sure to go to Derne Street, without 
going within sight of the 'Common. I minded you, although 
I wondered as I went along. 

Well, have you not heard any thing that explains my order.'' 

No, sir. . . ' 

Is it possible ! Then you do not know that there was a 
fight on the Common yesterday ? 

No, sir, I never heard about it. . 

Havn’t you heard the boys talk about the Northenders and 
Southenders ? 

I have heard a little about it, sir. I know that there is 
some trouble between them ; but I don’t care much about 
such things, and you know that I do not go with fighting ■ 
boys. s ^ ' 

Well, they met on the Common yesterday ; and four boys 
were nearly killed. I heard that it was going to be, and I 
was anxious that you should not get into any danger. 

So you won’t let me go to Catechism for some such- 
reason ? 

My father took no notice of this ; but he went on talking 
about the boys. I heard more about it, the next day, at 
school. 

When I was a schoolboy there was a bitter feud between 
the young rowdies who went to the schools at the south part 
of the city, and those who belonged to the northend schools. 

I cannot say.what was the origin of the ill feeling between 
them, but it is certain that it’existed in my time, and perhaps 
it does to this day. A southend boy, who was known to be 
one, would meet with rough treatment in Hanover Street. 
So would a Northender, if he were caught in Common Street. 


50 


This state of things brought about several fights, in which 
the worst thing that happened would be, that black eyes and 
bloody noses were carried home. So, when the boys of eithei 
district visited the other quarter of the city, they would often 
go in squads ; sometimes for mutual protection, sometimes for 
the sake of a fight. The Common was generally regarded 
as neutral ground, where boys of either section might play 
without let or hindrance. But even here there was not peace, 
but an armed truce, and it never required much to get up a 
fight. Sometimes fifty or so would meet there, by previous 
appointment, for a general engagement. 

The only personal experience I ever had of this state of 
things was obtained one afternoon, shortly after that talk with 
my father. I was sent to Warren Street by my mother, and 
I was returning home, when four boys stopped me. 

Be you a Northender, or Southender ? 

Neither one or the other. 

Where do you live ? 

Westend. 

That’s all the same. Hurrah, hit him in the muns ! 

My cap flew off, and I believe I should have fared badly, for 
they were all big boys, had not a gentleman driven them 
about their business, if they had any. 

The dogs of Constantinople divide the city between them 
in a like fashion. The Turks never harbor the animals in 
tneir houses ; it is a part of their superstition. So the dogs 
live in the streets. They are the <5ity scavengers, and they 
do the work pretty well. All the offal, and the food thrown 
into the street by charitable persons, instantly disappears. 
The strangest part of the thing is, that the dogs divide the 
city into a number of wards, and the lines between them seem 
to be generally understood. The dogs of the same quarter 
do not molest one another, ordinarily; but when a dog ven- 
tures across the line, and walks into a street belonging to 
another quarter, he is instantly known, and torn to pieces. 
Travellers have to take great care of their dogs ; in fact, they 
cannot have an animal with them when they are walking. 
This custom of keeping dogs in the streets is a very ancient 
one. David refers to it in one of the Psalms, where he says 
that certain persons shall wander through the city, and be 
hungry like dogs. 

We lived, at one time, not far from Fort Hill ; and the 
\iiaster of that district used to visit my father occasionally, as 


51 


they were acquainted. The master urged him to send me 
to that school ; but father would not. He said that we were 
living in that quarter only for a short time, and that we should 
soon return to our old district. This was true. But he had 
a weightier reason. Derne Street school was frequented mostly 
by the sons of wealthy men. Fort Hill school was full of 
Catholic boys, and he was determined that I should'not asso- 
ciate with any of them. Poor man ! it was a terrible mis- 
take. I believe that it was the only great fault of his life, 
and he paid dearly for it. So have I. I do not know one of 
my old schoolmates, and my dearest friends are men who 
were Fort Hillers when they were boys. 

It is very likely that they were some boys there with dirty 
faces, torn jackets, and hard fists ; but their worst was out- 
side : with my own schoolmates, it was the reverse. 

I was never near the school on the hill when I was a boy, 
and my notions about the lads there were about as correct as 
those of a Chinese about the outside barbarians. I do not 
know whether they mixed in the North and Southend quar- 
rels, but I had heard that they were terrible fighters. I under- 
stood that pugilism was taught there as regularly as grammar. 
The master seldom took any notice of a fight among them, 
unless it might be to call up the boy who had been beaten, 
and thrash him soundly for his ill luck. Here is a story 1 
heard about them. 

They have a handsome green fronting the school. I never 
saw it until I was a lad of fifteen years, and then I thought 
that it was the finest looking place for a school I ha’d ever 
seen, and I was sorry that I had not been sent there. This 
green was kept in nice order by the boys, who prided them- 
selves on its pretty appearance in the summer months. One 
morning in July, the master called the head boy 

John McGunigle ! 

Sir. 

There is a fellow lying on the grass in the square. Just 
go with my compliments, and ask him to walk off the grass. 

John went to the square, and spoke civilly to the man. 
He was a tall, rough fellow, evidently just from the country. 

Sir, the master begs that you will go somewhere else. 

How de deu ? Want to buy any marbles ? Got a whistle 
here — sell it cheap, seein it’s you. 

Will you go away, sir } The master has sent me. 

How many lickins de git a, week ? Ain’t the master’s 


52 


cowhides worn out ? Tell him I’ve got some — sell ’em cheap 
— and I’ll give im one for nothin, if he’ll promise to try it 
fust on your hide. 

Once more, will you go, or will you not ? 

You go to grass. Guess I’ve got ns good a right to the 
pastur as any other hog. You’ve got darned stuck-up notions, 
down here. 

John went and reported to the master. The old man 
quietly called four of his hardest lads. Now, boys, said he, 
that fellow must be off. I know that two of you can manage 
him, but I. wish to make sure of it. Speak to him civilly, ask 
him to go ; and if he won’t, I leave him to your discre- 
tion, only don’t break any bones. And mind ! if you come 
up and leave him on the grass. I’ll flog every one of you. 
Now go. 

Away they went. Probably they never had an errand that 
tickled them so. The master gave a recess for fifteen min- 
utes, that the other boys might see the fun. 

The eldest of the four was the orator. He began : — 

I say, you sir, you’ve sent up a safsy answ’er to master. 
Now, I tell you that it’s no go. We won’t put up with any 
impudence to him. 

Haw, haw, h^w ! 

Now, you may as well go off quietly, for you’ve got to 
clear out. 

Well, whippersnapper, how’s yer marm } Tell her to take 
care on ye ; sich bright boys ain’t long for this world. Won-’ 
der ye want dead afore ye was born. 

-Will you go, or will you not } If you want to fight, say so. 
I’ll lick you with one hand. 

Plaw, haw, haw ! 

Here goes ! shouted the boys. And brother Ike’s hat flew 
into the air, while two blows, planted with great precision 
under his ears, laid him sprawling. The hat was full of 
doughnuts, cheese, and other matters, and the boys had a 
scrabble for them before Ike had recovered from his astonish- 
ment. When he was getting his legs, the doughballs and 
cheese were eaten, and the young scamps were all ready 
for him. 

Well, I swan to man ! Darn yer picters, he sputtered, as 
he rushed at them. 

But the boys had divided their work scientifically. One 
ran between his legs and tripped him up, while another gave 


53 


his shins a kick that would have killed him, if he were an 
African. The other two closed one of his eyes, and opened 
the fountains of his nose. Then, when he was down, they 
began to make mince meat of him. 

Will you go ? 

Gosh hang it, wait till I git up ! 

Will you clear out ? 

By the great horned spoons. I’ll have yer life ! 

But brother Ike was getting groggy. 

Stop, ye darned catamounts, give a feller a chance, ye 
blasted skunks. 

Will you be off.^ 

Yes ; let me git up, and I’ll go to Ginney. 

Well, go, then. But stop ! hold him down, Ned ! 

Watchew want now ? 

Ask pardon for sarsin master. 

Darned if I will. 

Wont you.? Take that! And the young rascals began 
again. 

Gor-ri ! Stop. 

Will you ask pardon } * 

Yes, any thing to git rid on ye. Uncle Sias told me -to 
look out for Boston notions, and not git sucked in, continued 
he, muttering to himself. Well, guess I’m gitting a taste on 
’em now ! 

Now, clear out, and mind you, don’t give any of your sauce 
when you’re going off. If you do, we’ll give you some more 
of the same. 

Brother Ike picked up himself and his hat. He sneaked 
to the head of Oliver Street, the boys watching him all the 
time. When he thought he had a good start, he turned and 
shook his fist at the quartette. 

Gaul bust ye to thunderation ! let me just catch ye in 
Hampshire, and I’ll take the Boston wrinkles out of ye. 
Let — — 

Away he flew down the street, for the boys had started in 
chase. ‘They did not get a flogging from "the master when 
they returned to the school. 

I was a favorite with the Sunday school teachers, because 
I always knew my Bible lesson. But there was one thing 
which sometimes made me wonder a little, and made my 
teachers a little vexed. 

I have told you that I studied the Catechism at home, and 

5 * 


54 


I knew every word of it. Well, the first Sunday school 
which I attended belonged to a Calvinistic society. I re- 
member that they had a sort. of Catechism there, mostly made 
up of questions which were often answered with some text 
from the Bible. Very often the answers contradicted our 
Catechism. This puzzled me, and I asked my father about 
it several times. He always told me to believe what my own 
Catechism said. But why, then, must I learn a Catechism 
that contradicts the true one ? I never could get an answer 
that satisfied me, but I was content to think that he knew 
best. 

One Sunday there was this question : How many sacra- 
ments are there ? It was my turn to answer, and I said 
promptly : — 

There are seven. 

My teacher was a young gentleman. 

No, Master O’Brien. Think again. 

But I know that there are seven. 

Where did you learn that there are so many } 

The Catechism says so. 

Why, no. You forget strangely. The Catechism says that 
there are two. 

I know that this book says so. But my Catechism tells a 
different story. 

Why, what Catechism do you mean } 

My Catechism, that I learn at home. 

Master O’Brien, what are these seven sacraments you are 
talking about } 

Baptism, Confirmation, Penance, Holy Eucharist, Extreme 
Unction, Orders, and Matrimony. 

My teacher looked up at the ceiling till I could only see 
the white of his eyes. The other boys in the class had been 
listening very attentively ; but when I said this, they began 
to titter. At last one of them spoke : John O’Brien, you are 
a benighted little Papist. 

I’d thank you not to affront me, said I. My Catechism 
says that it is a sin to call others injurious names. 

Silence, boys. Master O’Brien, there are only two Sacra- 
ments. Do you understand } How many are there } 

Two in your book, and seven in mine. 

It was the last time that I went to that Sunday school. I 
told my father all about it when I went home, and he Yool \ I 
very sober. At last he said that he would pick out ano. x 


55 


school for me. And so the next Sunday I went to it, and it 
was one that belonged to the Unitarians. 

I never liked to go to these schools, but I cannot even 
now say why I did not. 1 always felt uneasy in them, as if I 
were out of my sphere. The feeling was most likely the 
work of baptismal grace. I know that I should have been 
positively restive had it not been for the libraries ; but books 
always reconciled me to almost any place. I read them 
greedily ; and, as I said a little while ago, I drank poison 
from them that will never quite cease from troubling me. 

There was a Catechism used in this school, also. I did 
not like it, because it talked strangely about our Redeemer. 
But three months passed by before any thing happened to put 
me very much out of humor with the place. 

As I was going there, one Sunday morning, a large boy 
stopped me. 

Where are you going } he asked. 

To Sunday school. 

What Sunday school ? 

Chauncey Place. 

You had better take care ! You are on the road to hell. 

What do you mean ? 

Is not your father Thomas O’Brien ? 

Yes. 

Is he not a Catholic ? 

Yes, he is. 

Well, he is worse than you are. If he lets you go on in 
this way, he’ll have to sutler for it. 

I burst into tears, for it was the first time I had ever heard 
my father .lightly spoken of. And I felt that the boy had 
some reason for saying what he did. Besides, his ways w^e 
very civil. 

You had better be careful, said I, how you talk about my . 
father. He is a good man. 

He don’t behave like one, then, said he. He \s ruining you 
forever. Can’t you see how it is .? 

No, I cannot. 

See here, then. Do you believe in the Catholic Church ? 

Yes, I do. Isn’t it in the creed ? 

Well, must we obey it ? 

Yes, he that hears you, heafs me ; and he that despises you , 
despises me. 

You know the Catechism better than I thought you did. 


56 


So much the worse for you, if you don’t stop going to these 
hereticaj^^places. Now, is it a great sin to disobey the Church ? 

' Yes, it is. 

Does not the Church command us to keep holy the Sun- 
day ? , ^ 

Yes, by hearing mass, and abstaining from servile works. 

When did you hear mass last ? 

. I went with father, a little while ago. 

It is more than three months, for I saw you that day. Now, 
yoii see, you don’t obey the Church. Now, tell me another 
thihg. What is penance ? 

It is a sacrament for the remission of sins committed after 
baptism, and it has three parts — Contrition, Confession, and 
Satisfaction. 

Well, what is confession ? 

It is the accusation of our sins to a priest. 

When are we obliged to begin to go to confession ? 

When we have arrived at the use of reason, which happens 
about the age of seven years. 

Well, have you come to the use of reason .? 

I suppose I have. 

How old are you 

Almost eight years. 

When did you go to confession > 

I never went. 

When do you mean to go ? 

I don’t Icnow. I never thought of it. 

Well, here you are, disobeying the Church in another thing. 
Bu.t the bells are ringing ; I must hurry along. I am going to 
Catechism, and I advise you to go too. What do. you think 
will become of you, if you go on in this way 

I’m sure I don’t know, said I, crying bitterly. I always 
mind father. 

Well, mind one thing. When the Church speaks to us, 
we must obe^^her, even if all the fathers in the world tried 
to hinder us. Good-by. 

And I went into the school in a very bad humor with it. 

That day the superintendent chose to examine our class, 
and the lesson was from the first chapter of John. Of 
course, it was mainly about Jesus Christ. The superintendent 
called me. • 

Who is Jesus Christ > 

He is true God and true man. 


57 


No, my child. Where did you learn that ? 

“ It is in my Catechism.” I felt ready then to be torn to 
pieces, rather than yield a hair. 

What Catechism is that ? asked the superintendent. 

The Catholic one. 

Here the whole class looked at n^e, with their eyes and 
mouths as round as dollars. 

I study my Catechism at home, said I, and I believe it 
better than I do yours. 

Then the superintendent made a prayer, and afterwards 
spoke a good while about Jesus Christ. He said that he was 
a good man,and*nothing else. After he had finished talking, 
he advised me to read the Bible. ' 

I do read it, said I. I have read it through twice. And 
I believe in Jesus Christ, the only Son of God. He who denies 
him before men, will be denied by his Father in heaven. 
Here the second bells rung, and we went to meeting. I 
heard some of the teachers say. Poor little Papist ! 

I saw the superintendent talking to the minister before he 
went into the church. I thought that he was talking about 
me. At all events, the sermon was about me ; at least, so it 
seemed then. It was about Catholics, and even I, child as I 
was^ knew that he was telling lies. 

The poor Catholics are forbidden to read the precious 
Bible. 

A likely story, thought I, when my father has got two in 
the house ; and I, a poor little Papist, have read it through 
twice. 

The Catholics worship idols, images, pictures, the saints, 
and the Virgin Mary. 

Now, I know better, thought I. The first commandment 
in my Catechism says that we must worship only one true 
and living God. Images have no power to hear or help us. 
I wish I was big enough to get up and say that you are tell- 
ing wicked fibs. 

The Catholics break the commandments of God. 

Well, thinks I, I wonder if you ever heard a command- 
ment that says, Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy 
neighbor ? 

The fact is, I seemed to have learned a great deal this 
morning; but the new lesson was not very pleasant. I felt 
unhappy, and when meeting was over, I went home, crying 
bitterly all the way. You may easily guess that I had a long 


58 


story for father. He saw that something had happened, and 
he asked me what it was. 

Now, father, said I, when I had finished, why don’t you let 
me go to Catechism ? 

I never saw him so moved before. He walked up and 
down the room a while without speaking. At last he said, I 
will promise you one thing. You shall not go to the Sunday 
schools and meetings any more. I will think about the other 
matter, and let you know before next Sunday. 

The next day he called me to him. 

John, said he, do you know what they learn at the Catholic 
Sunday school ? 

Yes, sir. They learn the Catechism. 

Well, do you think that they would teach it to you better 
than I have 

No, sir. 

Then do you know what good you would get by going ? 

Well, I wouldn’t hear such things there as I heard last 
Sunjlay. 

That is very true. But can you guess why I have never 
let you go to Catechism } 

You wanted to keep me away from the Paddies. 

My father started as if he were stung by a serpent. He 
had never breathed such a word ; but I had hit the truth, only 
the idea was expressed by a rough word. His eyes filled 
with tears, and his lip quivered as he went on. 

John, said he, where in the name of wonder did you get 
that word ? Did you ever hear me use it ? 

I certainly never did. But it was a common expression 
among my playmates. I had only three or four ; for, to me, 
play was very simple. I never had a kite, sled, skates, 
marbles, or balls, and I never wanted them. I never cared 
for out-of-door amusements ; it was enough if I could tell or 
hear stories, read nice little books, and look at pretty pictures. 
My companions were the children of my father’s friends, and 
he selected them for me because they lived in large houses, 
and wore good clothes. It was not often that I heard any 
thing about our church, but I never heard any thing good 
said of it. It was always called the Paddy church. My idea 
of a Paddy was, that he was a low, dirty, and vulgar fellow, 
who always swore, drank, fought, and couldn’t speak plain 
English. So I laughed at them as heartily as my companions 
did, without suspecting that my father was as genuine a 


59 


Paddy as ever lived. Now, I had never heard him speak of 
his countrymen slightingly ; I know that he loved his coun- 
try well ; but he would not mix with them, from what motive 
[ cannot say ; but pride and vanity were at the bottom of it, 
without doubt. 

I seldom thought about going to mass, or to catechism ; 
and when I did, it was in consequence of some incident like 
that which happened on the morning in question. Then I 
would feel as if I ought to go. But this feeling would soon 
pass away, and I would laugh with my young friends about 
the Paddies as merrily as ever. 

I think that my Protestant education was nearly com- 
pleted at the house of Deacon Mills, as he was called. He 
was a man in whom my father placed entire confidence, and, 
in a worldly point of view, he was quite worthy of it. I was 
at his house oftener than at any other not my father’s. He 
professed what is called liberal, or homoeopathic Christianity. 
Pie was eminently a benevolent man, in the sense which is 
commonly given to the word. Few distressed persons ap- 
plied to him in vain. All the philanthropic institutions of 
the city counted him in the list of their benefactors. The 
poor knew him well, and they commonly spoke of him in 
words of praise. He was a most unsparing enemy of in- 
temperance. With him it was nearly a mania, for he 
counted it as the one deadly sin. If he were Milton, he 
would have represented the devil as a rumseller, with a 
barrel for his throne, a bottle for his sceptre, and a tumbler 
for his crown. Some people doubted his honesty, but I 
believe without much reason. I am persuaded that he lacked 
only one thing, but that was the one thing needful. Now, 
this man nearly succeeded in making me renounce my bap- 
tismal vows. 

He did not attack openly. O, no ! If he had shown his ^ 
colors, he would have been less dangerous. If he had ranted 
and lied about Popery, as so many ministers do in their 
pulpits, so many authors in their books, and so many editors 
in their papers, he might have made blind heretics fall into a 
darker abyss, but he would have made no impression upon 
Catholics. A child who knew his Catechism would detect 
the cheat, as I did on the Sunday I spoke of a little while 
ago. But Deacon Mills has as sovereign a contempt for 
vulgar Protestantism as you or I have now. He was sharp- 
sighted enough to see that the destinies of the nation would 




60 


depend mainly upon the character of the next generation , 
and he had good evidence that in twenty or thirty years the 
Catholics would be very numerous. He determined to do all 
that he could to make their number in the next generation 
less. The perversion of a Catholic child was, in his eyes, 
the best triumph he could achieve, and when it was to be 
accomplished, money and labor were not spared. He 
might have patronized benevolent institutions for their own 
sake, — it is not unlikely; but they certjiinly did not find 
less favor in his eyes because almost every one of them, 
with proper management, might be made an instrument for 
the weaning of our children from the Church, and so for de- 
creasing the number of Catholics, which threatened to be too 
formidable in a few years, let Protestants labor as they 
would. 

He had several associates in this work, and they all played 
into one another’s hands. There was perfect system in their 
operations, and when one of them had a Catholic child fairly 
within his grasp, its faith was in the valley of the shadow 
of death. 

Now, it was one of his maxims, that more flies are caught 
with honey than with vinegar. So he never said any thing 
against the church, or against her children. In fact, it was 
no trifling detail of his plan, never to allude to the subject. 
He placed great reliance upon this negative weapon of per- 
fect silence, and a little reflection will show that he acted 
with judgment. 

Then he labored hard to cultivate in children just such a 
taste as would be offended by things seen and heard in a 
church frequented by Irish Catholics. All his remarks, his 
stories, and the books he would read sometimes, tended in 
this direction. Every scene was from Protestant life, and all 
the views selected were pleasing to the eye. He never 
seemed to enjoy himself so much as when he had thirty or 
forty children around him ; and he often gathered them 
together. I suppose that his theory about children was the 
same as that of my father ; at all events, he put it in practice. • 
He would not only encourage and direct our plays, but he 
would sometimes gambol and frolic with us as if he were 
again a boy. This man will appear often in the course of 
my story. If I am not a heretic, it is not his fault. 

My father became sick during the week following that 
memorable Sunday. While I was sitting at his bedside, 


61 


reading the Imitation of Christ, he told me to stop for a few 
moments. 

John, I have been thinking about the Catechism. I prom- 
ised that you should no longer go to the Protestant Sunday 
schools, and you shall not. I am afraid that you have been 
to them too often already ; in fact, I have done wrong, my 
son, in allowing you to go at all. Now I see my mistake, 
and I will do all I can to retrace my steps in this business. 
I will soon have you go to Catechism, and make your com- 
munion, and be confirmed. It is true that you are young, 
but I think that you have been brought up in a way that has 
made you as ready as are some boys a little older than you 
are. It is possible that I may die soon ; and if I should, you 
will know what my intentions are. So you may begin now. 
You know your Catechism ; you have studied the chapters on 
penance, but you never went to confession. Get ready to 
go soon. I will take you to a priest as soon as I get well. 
God forgive me, — I will try to do that for you which I ought 
to have done long before. 

Poor man ! He had sown good wheat in my soul, but he 
had also sown tares, and no hand but that of the all-powerful 
God could tear them thence. 

I got another lesson while he was sick. I had often done 
little items of business for him at stores, and he always tried 
to send me on errands that would make me think that I was 
a man. His butcher had sold out to another man, and when 
I went to order provisions one day, I found the new-comer 
in the store. I told him what I wanted ; he gave it to me, 
and asked for the money. I told him that I had none. 
From what I said, he understood that father was an old 
customer at the store, and was in the habit of paying his 
bill on the first of every quarter. I suppose he saw that it 
was all right ; at all events, he asked my name and resi- 
dence, and gave me what I wanted. Things went in this 
way for nearly three months, when the butcher called at our 
house, and asked for Master John O’Brien, saying that he 
had a bill against the young gentleman. This was when 
father was sick. The message made both father and mother 
stare ; as for me, I was frightened out of my wits. 

Show him up, said my father. A bill ngainst John ! 
What 'can it mean ? 

I could not tell ; but the butcher walked' in. Sir, said he, 
your son, here has bought provisions at my store for nearly 


three months, and I have made out the bill in his name, for 
I did not know what yours might be. 

O, very well, said my father, quite relieved. But I was 
not. I had no money ; how could I pay it ? 

John, said my father, you must settle with Mr. Meacham. 

Father, how can I ? I was in great perplexity. I’ve got 
only five dollars, I continued, and you know what I’m saving 
them for. Besides it won’t pay a quarter of the bill. 

But you can have the money, can you not.? Think a 
moment. 

I cannot. 

Well, did you not get the provisions for me ? 

Yes, sir. 

And you had my authority for getting them ? 

Yes, sir, I had. 

Well, then, you can call upon me to help you pay this bill. 
Go to my desk, and take out as much money as is required. 
Pay Mr. Meacham, and he will give you a receipt ; and he 
will give you meat when you call again, no doubt. 

Now, John, said my father, when the man had gone, you 
have learned a good lesson, if you will only remember it 
always. You were distressed when you had the bill given 
you, and no money wherewith to pay it. Never buy any 
thing if you are not sure that you can produce the money 
when it is wanted. It is a miserable feeling to have an ac- 
count that must be settled, without any visible means to meet 
it. It is a feeling which has driven many men to cheat and 
to steal. Never get into such a difficulty. It is better to be 
hungry, but out of debt, than to have plenty, and be afraid to 
meet people in the street, for fear that they will ask money 
that is justly theirs, but which you cannot pay. 

My father kept his word about my confession. One Sat- 
urday afternoon, he took me to the church, and pointed out a 
box in the corner. Now, said he, the priest is sitting in that 
box. When your turn comes, you will go as you see the 
others do. Say what you have to say in as few words as 
you can. Then, when you come out, say your prayers, and 
go home without stopping by the way. And he left me to 
my reflections. They were not very pleasant. I had never 
spoken to a priest ; I had only seen them at the altar, and 
I did not know that they zoould speak to any body. What 
will he say to me ?. What shall I say to him ? And I 
began to grow alarmed. 


63 


Suppose that he should scold me, was my next thought. 
I am not going to tell him any thing good of myself ; it 
will be all bad. Perhaps he will be angry. I wonder if he 
has got a stick in there, to whip fellows with And I grew 
more frightened every minute. 

Pooh ! thinks I to myself, — as I held my knees tightly 
to keep them from knocking together, — he won’t be cross. 
Father says they are always good, like Christ, when he went 
after the stray lamb. 

But my turn was near, and I grew more and more unwill 
ing. A new source of disturbance occurred. 

What right has Jie to know what I have done ? Suppose 
he goes and tells it to other people ? And if I ever see him 
again, won’t he think of it ? I shall, that is certain. And 
here all that I had heard and read at those unfortunate Sun- 
day schools, and at other places, seemed to start up at once, 
and come to my mind as if I had just heard and read them. 
Among other things, I remembered these words, which I 
nad read in one of the books taken from the Sunday school 
library : 

“ The poor Papists live without God. They go to a 
priest, give him money, and buy pardon for the sins they 
have done ; and, if they have got money enough, they can 
buy leave to steal and murder. 

What silly men these Catholics are ! said Eliza. 

Yes, and what wicked wretches the horrid priests are ! 
said Jane. 

I mean to be a missionary, and convert all these poor 
Papists, shouted Charles. And if the wicked priests kill me, 
as they did so many good people that we read about in Fox’s 
Book of Martyrs, Pll be a martyr too, won’t I, father } 

Mr. Watkins smiled, and laid his hand on the boy’s head. 
Bless thee, my son, said he.” 

All this stuff, and much more, came to my mind, and 
quite unhinged me. So, when my turn came, I was in a 
spasm of terror, and I dragged myself to the place, I don’t 
know how. I found myself in the awful presence, at any 
rate ; but all recollection had gone, and I stood staring stupidly 
at the priest, without knowing what to do next. He had on 
a square cap, and quick as lightning there came the remem- 
brance of a book I had read about the Inquisition. There 
was a picture, in the book, of the inquisitor sitting in a chair, 
while a poor Christian was pulled to pieces on a rack. 


64 


There were swords and pincers hanging on the walls, and I 
thought that the man in the chair looked like the priest 
sitting here. I almost screamed with fright. 

Kneel down ! he said, sharply. His tone did not calm me 
at all, but I obeyed mechanically, all the time staring him in 
the face. 

Say the prayer, little boy ; I cannot wait all day. 

God help me, I had forgotten, almost, what prayer meant. 
But I felt that I must say something, and the thought of the 
saws, and whips, and pincers unloosed my tongue, though I 
made sad work of it. 

Our Father, who — No. Hail Mary, full of — I mean, 
I believe in — Glory to the ghost, amen. Don’t pinch 
me, I whimpered. 

What’s that you are saying ? Stop crying now ! Go on. 

Please tell me what I must do. 

Speak softly. Do ? Why, make your confession. 

I began to blubber something, and he all the time saying. 
Less noise ! speak easy ! At last, he lost his patience. You 
are too young to come here. Go home, and wait till you 
learn how to confess. 

I started, and got out of the .church as quickly as Lcould, 
glad to escape so easily. Every thing outside looked as 
bright' and as new to me as if I had been shut np in the 
Inquisition for a month. 

A nice thing is Protestant education for a Catholic child. 
My next confession was made six years afterwards. I made 
it in a better fashion ; but I was sorely frightened withal. 1 
have made it many times since, but I have never shaken off 
those disagreeable feelings, and I suppose that I never shall. 
Of course, my understanding has no part in them, but they 
cling to me, for all that. A peace that passes all under- 
standing comes after the duty is done ; but when it is to be 
performed, I feel as if I were to be hung, drawn,, and quar- 
tered. I laugh at my qualms, but that does not drive them 
away. My early impressions were against confession ; and, 
although they do not affect my judgment, they shake my 
nerves. 

And now I come to the first great event of my life. I was 
soon to be thrown upon the world, a penniless orphan. 

My father trusted few men as he did the head of the house 
m which he was employed. He often said that he would lend 
him all he was worth, without a note He learned to rue his 


65 


confidence in the rich merchant. The firm had met with 
enormous losses, but it was not known. The head contrived 
to get the names of a few persons to his notes before the state 
of his affairs was ascertained, and my father was one of those 
men. The merchant absconded, and his securities had to 
suffer, of course. It ruined my father, for the little property 
he had gained was seized. He was an altered man from 
that day. 

What made the matter worse was the sickness of my 
mother. She had a malignant typhus fever, and her life hung 
upon a thread. She never knew that we were beggars. My 
fiither kept the news from her, and he tried to prevent his 
face from telling it, which was no easy matter for him. A 
priest came to the house, and gave her the sacraments. She 
died ; and when she was buried, my father lay down in his 
bed to die. 

He struggled hard with his sickness, for my sake, as he 
told me. He knew that I would be quite alone in the world, 
and he knew that I would be penniless. The doctor came 
again, so did the priest; they told him that he must die, but 
he would not believe it for a great while. The few Catholic 
friends he had were at his bedside every day, and one of 
them had promised to take me to his house, and put me in 
the way of earning my living. The house had been sold, 
and the new owner only waited to have my father carried out 
of it, that he might enter. My father had sent me to find 
what sums were due by him to others, and I was to tell them, 
that they should be paid when the remains of the furniture 
would be sold. At last he died, calmly and sweetly. " His 
last words were, John, trust in God, and in 'His mother. 
Mind your religion — mind it, John. I have done you great 
wrong, for through my fault you are not prepared to confess 
God before men. May our merciful Savior do for you what 
I should have done. John, you always obeyed me ; remem- 
ber my last commands. Never go near Protestant meetings 
and Sunday schools. Associate, as far as possible, only with 
good Catholics. Be sure and go to a priest very soon.^ Go 
to Catechism, get ready for your first communion as quickly 
as you can, for I believe that I shall not rest until it is done. 
Remember these words, my boy, and now do not forget to 
pray for your poor father’s soul. 

He died, and I went from the graveyard at South Boston 
to the house of my new master. 

6 * 


C6 


CHAPTER III. 

JOHN TRIES TO BE A SHOEMAKER. FORTUNE MISTAKES HIM 

FOR A FOOTBALL. HE RESOLVES TO BE A FARMER. NO 

• FARMER WILL KEEP HIM. 

Mr. Riley was a good Catholic. He had lost his wife a 
year before, and his sister managed his household affairs. 
He had one daughter, a year younger than I, and he kept 
her at school. I was to learn the trade which Mr. Riley fol- 
lowed, which was that of a shoemaker ; and in a week after 
my father was buried, I went to the shop. It was to me a 
change of scene, and for a little time I did not dislike my 
situation ; but I soon grew tired of it. My work was to make 
threads, and to sew together little pieces of leather ; and, for 
a while, I was interested in watching the workmen in the 
shop, and in seeing how shapeless bits of leather would grad- 
ually take the form of a handsome shoe. But I would some- 
times spoil my work, even after I had been repeatedly shown 
how to do it, and many a scolding I got from the men for my 
carelessness. Mt. Riley used to ask me how I liked my new 
place, and I always told him that I liked my work, and that I 
loved Mary dearly ; but that I did not like to be a shoemaker. 
Well, he would say, I do not want you to learn the trade if 
you do not like it. But you are only eight years old, and you 
have time to learn two trades before you are twenty-one. 
There is no hurry. You can get along in the shop for 
awhile ; and when you think of a trade that pleases you, you 
will let me know it. Did you ever make up your mind what 
you would like to be ? 

I want to be a lawyer, said I. Father always told me 
that 1 might be, when I would grow up. 

Your father had the means of supporting you, my boy, and 
I have not. I would like to do what he meant to do for you, 
if I could. But I am poor. 

Well, said I, perhaps you might, some time or other, get me 
into a bookstore. I would like to live in a bookstore, and never 
go out of it. 

We will see, said Mr. Riley. It is plain enough that you 


67 


have little or no genius for shoemaking. But you can stay 
with me, and earn your board, until something better turns 
up. I shall expect you to open the shop in the morning, and 
make the fire. You can go home to breakfast at eight, and 
stay an hour. You may have two hours at dinner,' and this 
will give you a chance to do any little errands that are to be 
done at the house, and to save a little time for yourself. You 
may always leave off work and go home at six o’clock. So 
you will have time enough to study a little, and from what I 
have seen, I believe that you will not throw it away. 

I was very thankful to him, for I believe that few men 
would have allowed me so much time to myself. 

On Sundays I went to catechism, and it did not take me 
long to get at the head, for I knew it all long before. The 
priests used to speak to me often, and the one that sent me 
away from confession often took notice of me. I tried to 
like him ; in fact, I could not help it, for he was very good to 
me ; but as often as I looked at him, the inquisitor would come 
to my mind. There was a great cellar under the church, 
and I would sometimes peep in, and wonder if people ever 
were shut up there. My name was put in the list of boys 
who would make their first communion, and be confirmed the 
next year. I made few acquaintances, but these happened 
to be of the right kind. Some of them are my dearest 
friends now. 

One thing struck me forcibly. I had always been with 
the children of Protestant parents at school, and at play. I 
told you in the last chapter what sort of language I heard 
there veiy often. Here I heard little of it. I did not think 
of this until one of the boys, while we were going home, used 
a very filthy expression, and some of the others told him to 
carry his dirt to some other market. 

There were some boys, to be sure, that came without shoes 
and stockings, and with torn clothes. Sometimes they were 
rough at play, and now and then there would be a little fight. 
Then I heard more of the brogue than I ever did before 
But all these things went for nothing ; I felt very happy there, 
because I knew that I was in my right place. 

Well, John O’Brien, you have got to be quite a Paddy. 
This was said to me by the boy who had talked to me so on 
the last Sunday that I went to the Protestant Sabbath school 
as they call it. 

I laughed. 


68 


Well, said he, I am glad to see you where you ought to 
have been, long ago. Your father 

Stop, said I, as my heart swelled within me ; don’t say any 
thing against him, if you please. He may have done wrong 
in that, but he never did in any thing else. 

Well, I won’t say any thing. You are in the right way 
now, at -any rate. So the fault is made good. How do you 
like the boys ? 

Very well. They act more like brothers than any boys I 
ever saw. Once in a while they fight, but they laugh at it 
the next minute. 

Have you gone to confession yet ? 

Yes. I went once, but I won’t go again very soon. The 
priest told me to go away, because I was too young. I was 
terribly frightened, I tell you. 

Pooh ! you will know better one of these days. You had 
better try to get acquainted with the priests. The reason' 
why you are afraid of them is, because you have lived like a 
heretic all your days, and you have picked up all sorts of 
cock and bull stories at them schools, I dare say. 

I soon became attached to my new home. Mr. Riley had 
a few good books, and I used to read them aloud to the family, 
sometimes. I always gave two hours a day to my geography, 
grammar, and writing. Then Mary Riley and I would tell 
stories, and read together ; and I used to feel very proud 
when I could teach her any thing she did not know. She 
was a year younger than I was, but she was a good scholar, 
and she had a drawer full of rewards of merit. The only 
thing in which she went beyond me was arithmetic. I hated 
this study, and so. I never tried hard to get along in it. She 
was at the head of her class in that, as well as in every 
thing else. 

I never had a sister, and I soon began to feel that she was 
all the world to me. I would sit at work in the shop, mak- 
ing up little stories to tell her at night, and I was always try- 
ng to think of something that I could do for her. But I could 
not, with all my ingenuity, make any thing to give her. I 
tried to make a little box, but when it was finished, it was 
not fit for any thing but to hold pegs and tacks, in the .shop ; 
and I cut my finger badly too in making it ; but I was almost 
glad of it, because she bound it up for me. 

1 could not then have told any one why I loved her so , 
for I did not, at that age, think much about beauty or grace 


69 


and it is very likely that I did not know what they were. 
But I was an orphan, and there was a wide, wide void in my 
heart, that \Yanted to be filled. She soon occupied every 
corner, and she has kept it ever since. 

Yet she was very beautiful, as you can judge, for there she 
sits ; and she has lost none of her youthful grace. You need 
not blush, Mary. I would not say this to your face, if I did 
not know that you were already spoiled by the praises I have 
heaped upon you. 

Why, John, how you do talk ! 

Don’t interrupt me. I have been trying for some time to 
be dissatisfied with something in you ; but I haven’t succeeded 
as yet. Well, I began to grow foolish about her. I thought 
that I would be a shoemaker, after all, so that I might always 
make her shoes. I used to swell with anger when I saw any 
boy speaking to her. One of her cousins gave her a little 
box, and after that I thought that hanging would be too good 
for him. I wasn’t pacified till I spit all my venom in her pres- 
ence, when she laughed at me until she cried. When she 
did that, I thought that my cup of misery was full. I burst 
into an uncontrollable fit of crying and sobbing ; I wished 
that I was dead, and laid in the grave with my father and 
mother. That made her sober ; she stopped laughing, and 
began to cry with me. She flung her little arms around me, 
and as her warm tears fell upon my face, she begged me not 
to feel so badly. I would rather hear you tell me one story 
than have a hundred boxes from any body else. 

Would you, though ? said I, brightening up. 

Yes, I would. Can’t you tell me a story now } 

Yes, I can. Once there was a little boy, that had a very 
good father and mother. They sent him to school, and 
always made his home seem to him what the hymn says that 
Sunday schools are ; that is, a little heaven below. Well, 
his mother took sick, and went to God, to pray that he might 
go up there too. Then his father went to bed, and by and by 
he was carried out of the house, and the little boy saw him 
put into the cold grave. And he lay down on it, and prayed 
to God that he might go too, and see his father and mother, 
and see Christ, who always loved little children that are never 
wicked, because he was once a good little child. And the 
boy went with a good man, who promised to take care of him ; 
but it was so different from his own home, and there was no 
father and no mother ! But there was a good little girl, and 


70 


she did not make him forget his parents ; no, she could not 
do that ; but she made him feel that somebody in the world 
loved him as they used to, in old, happy days. And now he 
is very miserable, sometimes, because he is afraid that he 
will lose her too. 

Here another fit of sobbing stopped my voice. While 1 
was telling my story, Mary had come again to me, and she 
clung to me fast. 

John, are you that little boy } 

Yes, I am. 

Then I am the little girl ? 

I said nothing. The fact is, I could not. It was quite a 
scene of childish misery. 

But, John, why do you think that you will lose me 1 Am 
I — am I — going to die ? 

0 Mary, what makes you ask that question ? 

Well, then, how are you going to lose me 7 Can’t we live 
in the same house always ? I don’t want to go away. 

Mary, it is time to go to school ! exclaimed her aunt, from 
the bottom of the stairs. Make haste, or you will be late ! 

Yes, aunt, I’m coming. 

Then we’ll live in the same house always, won’t we, Mary ? 

Yes, we will. Good-by, John. 

Good-by, Mary. 

Pretty strong courting for a boy of eight years, and a girl 
of seven. 

1 think that it was a day or two after, that her aunt scolded 
hef terribly because she broke a plate accidentally. I was 
very angry with Miss Riley, the more so as Mary began to 
cry. I did not dare to say any thing to • the lady, but I 
thought that I would console Mary. And I did it after a 
strange fashion. 

Never mind, Mary, said I. You’ll be my little wife one 
of these days ! 

Mary’s neck was as rosy as her cheeks when I said that. 
Her aunt stood still a minute, looking at me with her great 
big eyes. At last she snatched up the broom, and ran at 
me. I scampered off to the shop, laughing all the way at the 
new idea ; and when I sat down to work, I began to make up 
a story to tell Mary, at night. I spoiled lots of work, and 1 
got a good scolding for it, but I didn’t mind ’enT; they might 
as well have scolded the wall. 

Mr. Riley was almost always there, and he never allowed 


71 


any swearing, or bad language, in the shop. But when he 
went out, some of them would talk abominably. I did not 
understand much of what they said, but I knew that they were 
saying vile things, and I could not help understanding them, 
sometimes. If men only knew the deep, deep damnation 
they are drawing upon their own heads, when they poison 
the minds of children so ! Why cannot they have mercy 
upon these tender creatures, and, if they will not teach them 
good things, at least abstain from leading them into tempta- 
tion. The Romans, pagans as they were, sometimes wrote 
over the doors of places where children were gathered 
together, “ Reverence is due to the young mind. Let noth- 
ing be heard in this place which is unfit for the ears of a 
child.” In this matter, many of us are worse than pagans, 
and they will accuse us at the last day. But our most fearful 
accuser will be the child whom we have taught to walk in the 
very broadest and most crowded road that leads to eternal 
damnation. There ought to be an inscription written in legi- 
ble characters, and fastened to the walls of every shop where 
there are men and boys working together — “Woe to the 
man who shall give scandal to these little ones. He had 
better have a mill-stone tied around his neck, and be cast into 
the sea.” 

Just so. It would be greater mercy to take a child, mur- 
der it, and so send it to heaven, than to make its mind a 
habitation of devils, on earth and in hell. 

I spent ten happy months at this house, and then there came 
a change. Mr. Riley’s sister married, and went to Ohio. 
Mr. Riley busied himself so about the matter, that he caught 
a severe cold, and neglected it. A typhus fever was the 
consequence, and in ten days he was laid in the grave. 
Mary was an orphan, and how well I knew how to weep with 
her, when all was over ! 

She was taken to the house of a relation, and I was told 
that I need not come near the place. She pleaded for me in 
vain ; we had to part. 

John, said she, I did not think that your words were com- 
ing true so soon. Now I know how bad you felt the other 
day, when you said that you were an orphan, and that you 
was afraid to lose me. John,^I have no mother or father, and 
I am going to lose you. I cannot help it. I ani a very little 
girl, and I cannot take care of myself. But I will never for- 
get the good times we have had together, and I will always 


72 


pray for you, every morning and every night. Now, you 
gave irfe a medal the other day, that your mother wore. Here 
is a cross that my mother* always had on her neck. You take 
it, and wear it formed It is the best thing I ever had. And 
then we cried and sobbed, and clung to one another like twc 
foolish children that didn’t know what was the matter wit! 
us. We know now, don’t we, Mary ? 

John, tell your story, do ! 

Well, I was homeless again. Not quite, though. One oi 
the men who worked in the shop begged the new foreman 
to let me stay in it for a week or two, until I could get a bet- 
ter place. The master agreed to it, but not very willingly 
for he did not like me. My friend was a very poor and 
sickly man, and the others did not seem to care much about 
him, for he never drank or swore, and his clothes were mean. 
He took me with him that night, to his house. It was in Ann 
Street, and he lived in a garret, in one of the old houses there. 

Jane, said he to his wife, here is the boy I was speaking 
about this morning. I could not leave him in the street, for 
he might come to harm. We have little room for him, God 
knows, but I thought that it was my duty to offer him the lit- 
tle we have. May be our children will not be taken care of 
the less by God, because we have given a bite to the poor 
orphan. He will find a home in a few days, I don’t doubt. 

It was a miserable place ; I had never seen any thing like it 
before. There was a bed, an old table, and two or three 
broken chairs. A dipped candle gave all the light they had 
in the room, and a little boy, about my age, was sitting on a 
soap-box, trying to keep warm by the few coals that were 
going out on the hearth. There was a bed in the corner, 
on the floor, and a little boy was sleeping soundly in it. 

How is John ? said the father. 

He is better to-night. I am most sure he’d get well, if 
we could give him nourishing things. But we are poor folks. 
God make us thankful for the good we get, and patient when 
we can’t have what we want. 

Mr. Groan took the candle, and went to the bed. The little 
fellow was fast asleep, but he was moaning a little, as if he 
were in pain. His face was very pale, all but two bright 
spots in his cheeks. Mr. Groan set down the candle, and there, 
on his knees, he prayed for a few minutes. Then he lifted 
up the child very gently, and put him in the other bed without 

waking him up. In the mean time, Mrs. Groan cut a loaf of 

\ 


73 


bread, and put it on the table, with some slices of cold meat. 
Then she filled four mugs with something hot, which was 
ginger tea, as I afterwards found. 

Come, daddy, said the boy at the fire. Here’s supper on 
the table, and I’m awful hungry. 

The father showed me a place, and we ate our suppers. 
The victuals were not the best, nor were they plentiful, but 
we had enough. When I looked at them, at the poor room, 
at the sick boy, and at the woman, I did not wonder that he 
used to be so still and sober at the shop. His wife was a 
sickly-looking woman ; she appeared as my mother did, just 
before she died. 

After we were done eating, the mother cleared away the 
things, and then we all knelt down, while Mr. Groan said 
prayers out of the manual. Then he told us two boys that 
we might go to bed. I had made the boy’s acquaintance ; he 
told me his name, his age, and where he went to school. I 
was glad to go to bed any where ; so I undressed instantly, and 
in five minutes I was dreaming of my father and mother. 

The next morning, Mr. Groan said prayers, and we ate the 
other half of the loaf and the rest of the cold meat. Then 
he asked me if 1 had hit upon any plan. I can keep you a 
few days in the shop, said he, and you will earn enough to 
pay for what you eat. But you cannot stay there long. If I 
could afford to lose a day, I might find a place for you ; but I 
must work or starve. I will make inquiries, and if I hear of 
a situation, I will see if it will do^for you. 

I will go out, said I, andjisk sonde of my father’s friends to 
give me a chance to get my living. I guess that I can get 
into some one of the stores kept by them ; I will come to the 
shop this afternoon,' and tell you how I get along. 

Come back here to dinner, said Mr. Groan. 

I will, if I cannot get it any where else. And I went out 
into the world alone. 

I went to the stores on Long Wharf, where my father was 
manager. I asked for the great merchant, but he had failed, 
and was in a distant country. I could get no employment 
there ; I was too young. No one knew my father ; one young 
fellow thought that I was a thief ; another advised me to go 
to the theatre, where a boy of my appearance might be em- 
ployed in running errands for the actresses, and in bringing 
them liquor.' Another asked me if I could run fast. I told 
him that I could. 

7 


74 


Then run out of the store ; you are in the way. Clear out 
with you ! 

I went out, and sat down upon a barrel, crying bitterly. 
Presently some one laid his hand upon my shoulder. I 
looked up ; it was Deacon Mills. 

Why, John, my dear boy, what is the matter ? I know that 
your father and mother are dead, but why did you not come 
to my house, as before } My children have spoken of you 
often. Where have you been all this time ? And what is 
the matter with you now ? 

My heart warmed towards the old man. He had always 
been very kind to me, and I was happier with him than with 
any other man, excepting my father. In my present trouble, 
I thought that he had come to me like an angel from heaven. 
So I told him all that had happened, and how I was then 
searching for a place where I might earn my living. 

John, said he, I wish that you Would go to my house, and 
stay there until I come home this afternoon. You will take 
dinner with me to-day ? 

Yes, sir, thankfully. 

Well, good-by until then. 

And I felt a great load taken from my heart, as I walked 
along. I went to my old shop, and told Mr. Groan of my 
good fortune. He did not seem to like it as well as' I did, for 
he looked very grave when I told him who had taken me so 
kindly by the hand. 

Well, my boy, perhaps there is no danger. 1 hope for the 
best. 

Why, what is the matter ? 

O, perhaps nothing. I do not want to stand in the way of 
j-our advancement. There is no danger, if you will be 
faithful to God. You know your Catechism, so you know 
what your duties are. If you will say your prayers, and 
keep out of those meeting-houses, there will be no great 
danger. 

Well, I will try to do my duty, said I. I am very thankful 
to you for your kindness to me. I shall always remember it. 

Come and. see me, sometimes, said Mr. Groan. I shall 
be very glad to hear how you get along. 

^ As I went away, I heard him mutter. Poor boy, he will lose 
his soul, I am afraid. 

I went to the house of Deacon Mills, and I was met with a 
hearty welcome. I spent a very pleasant forenoon, reading 


75 


a new kind of Robinson Crusoe that had just come out. I 
had read half of it when the deacon came home. 

That’s right, John, said he ; you have kept your word, I 
see. Now we will have some dinner. And we sat down to 
a better meal than I had eaten for some time. He told two 
or three stories that made us laugh very heartily. Then he 
began to speak about drunken people. 

I was passing through Cross Street to-day, said he, and I 
saw a pitiful sight. There was a woman and two little chil- 
dren, both girls, and the woman was drunk. She was sitting 
on the edge of the sidewalk, and she could not sit very 
steadily, either. She stared at the carts and at the people 
passing by, with a drunken look, and her children were trying 
to pull her up, and get her to go home. Mother, do try to 
get up, said the eldest, an interesting child of seven years;, 
see how the people are looking at us. Mammy ! cried the 
other, mammy ! do come home, and give Biddy and me some 
bread. An officer of police came up, and took the woman 
into custody. He said that she was an old offender, and he 
was determined to complain of her that day. The children 
cried bitterly ; and, as a crowd was gathering, I called a 
coachman, and got the girls into the carriage ; and, jumping 
in, I told the man where to drive. On the way I quieted the 
children, and made the eldest tell me her story. She was 
sensible beyond her years, and in fact I have often observed 
the same thing in the young children of drunken parents. I 
suppose that it is because they are thrown upon their own 
resources, in a great measure, and are obliged to think for 
themselves in a great many things which are attended to by 
parents who are at all worthy of the name. 

Their father was dead ; the mother had been going on m 
this way for some time. I asked the children if they would 
not like to live in some place where they would be taken care 
of, have plenty to eat and drink, and to wear, and b.e taught 
some good trade by and by, so that they could earn a living, 
and take care of their mother. The eldest girl said that she 
would be very glad of the chance. I left them at the house 
I had chosen, and I arrived at the Police Court in time to hear 
the judge send the woman to the House of Correction for six 
months. I told him that I would see to the children, and he 
said that he was glad to hear it. Then I went back to the 
house, and told the matron to give them clean clothes, and I 
would give notice to the Young Ladies’ Society that there were 


76 


'two girls to be provided for, so that they would not icmain 
upon her hands long. I told the children to be good, and the 
lady would be a mother to them ; and that I would call agam 
soon to see them. I was fortunate enough to meet a charitable 
friend from the country, who at once ofiered to take the 
youngest to his house, and adopt her, if she suited him and his 
wife. He has no children ; so the girl is in the road to a good 
situation, if she happen to please them. The other will be 
disposed of in a day or two. I have been very fortunate 
to-day, continued he, glancing at me. The man of sin has 
lost three subjects, at least. 

I wondered who this man of. sin was, while the deacon 
went on. A distressing case happened last night, said he. 
A man and woman sat down over a great jug of rum. The 
man got drunk, and went to bed. The woman drank the 
raw liquor until she could neither drink any longer, nor get 
to bed. She fell off her chair, and she was found this morn- 
ing, lying dead on the floor. Her husband got up, and when 
he saw her lying there, he concluded that he might as well 
drown his trouble for a while ; so he hugged the jug so heart- 
ily that in a short time he was lying by the side of his dead 
wife. A neighbor went in this morning, and found their only 
child, a fine little fellow, nine years old, sitting on the floor, 
near the dead body of his mother, and the living corpse of 
his father, and weeping as if his heart was almost breaking, 
as I have no doubt it was. I will keep an eye on the boy, 
for I think that before long I shall have to do something for 
him. 

Are his parents Irish ? asked Mrs. Mills. 

Yes, they are. So much the more reason for being 
vigilant. ^ 

After dinner, he took me into his study. John, said he, I 
have been very fortunate to-day, more so than I had any 
reason to expect. A special Providence watches over you. 
I have heard of an excellent place ; it is in the country. I 
love the country ; don’t you ? pure air, and, above all, pure 
water. 

I thought a moment. I certainly did like it. My father 
had taken me out into the country a great many times. It 
was associated in my mind with green fields, pleasant hills 
and shady woods ; with all kinds of fruit ; with peacocks, 
fresh eggs, and new milk. I had often asked my father why 
he did not live in the country always, it was so much more 


77 


beautiful than the city. So I told- the deacon that I liked it 
well, and I would be very glad to go there. 

I am pleased to hear you say so, said he. I saw, this morn- 
ing, a friend of mine, who lives in the country, and who 
happens to want a boy of your age. He is a Frenchman. 

O, I will learn French, said I, clapping my hands. 

You will learn French, replied he, smiling. My friend has 
a large farm, and he will put you in the way of being a use- 
ful member of society, if you only do your part of the work. 
He will be here this afternoon, and if he likes you, he will 
take you with him in his chaise to Newton. 

To Newton ? That is not far from Boston. 

Only eight miles. But hark ! I think that Mr. Lanois is 
at the door. Yes, that is his voice. Let us go down to the 
parlor. 

He was there. Ah, Deacon Mills, zis is ze garcon what 
you recommend to me. Ah, ver good boy, ver good boy. 
But, parbleu, he ver littell small. 

Yes, Mr. Lanois, but he is quick for his years. I think 
that you will be able to put him to some use. 

Come to me, small boy. What you name ? 

Thinks I to myself, if I can’t speak French, I can under 
stand it already. John O’Brien, sir. 

How old you ? 

Almost nine years. 

Do you like ze contree ? 

Yes, sir. 

And you will go wis me, and be one farmer ? 

If you will take me. 

Ver well, small littell boy. I take you and t^ you. If 1 
like you, and you like me, we live ver well in my house. 
Now we go ; farewell. Deacon Mills. 

The deacon shook hands with me, and told me to be faith- 
ful, and I would have a farm of my own in a few years. He 
promised to call and see me when he passed that way. I 
thanked him for his kindness, and told him that I would try 
hard to please my new master. And so we rode off. 

My first hour’s experience of farming, life was very pleas- 
ant. It was a ride through the beautiful environs of Boston. 
I had often passed through them before, but I never took so 
much notice of them as I did this day, because I was going 
to live there. When we passed a pretty house, I would ask 
my master if it were not ours. 

• 7 * 


78 


No, my littell small boy, -we see my maison ver soon. 

Your mason^ thought I ; then you are building a brick house 
1 do’nt like a brick house in the country as well as a wooden 
one, said I. The wooden houses always look so white and 
clean. 

Ver true. 

What makes you live in a brick house, then ? 

Comment ? what you say ? I no live in de breek house ! 

You said mason 

O, you make one mistake. Maison is ze French word for 
house. 

A figure of speech, thought I ; the builder for the thing built. 
It is a queer language. 

By and by, we stopped at an old, large, red house. 

Zis is my house. 

Down went all my air castles about pretty white houses, 
with nice green blinds, and a garden of flowers at the front. 
Out came two women, three girls, and four boys, all of these 
last much smaller than 1. And then there was a great jab- 
bering, of which I could not understand a word. A man 
came and put the horse into the stable. 

Jean, take zat bucket, and fill it wis water at ze well. Zen 
go into ze stable, and you will find one sponge, and one 
brush. You will clean off all dirt from zis shay. Do you 
comprehend me > 

I did, and I went about the work at once. 

Ver well. Now you come into ze house. Small littell 
boys must eat, and grow big. You not do more work to- 
night. 

I was very glad of it, and at an early hour I went to bed, 
and fell asleep, resolving that when the house would be mine, 
as I fully determined it should be in the course of time, I 
would paint it white, and hang to it green blinds, and plant 
ilowers all along the front. 

Jean, small littell boy, it is time to rise out of ze bed. 

I hurried down stairs ; it was a fine morning in April. We 
went out of the house, and walked towards a large field, 
where there were several men at work. Now you begin to 
be one farmer to-day, said he. 

My notions of farming were about as accurate as those- of 
a boy who is in love with sea life are about the ocean. I liked 
to shake fruit from the trees, shell and parch corn, and chase 
the gobblers and peacocks, when there were any. These 


79 


were the pleasures, the poetry of farming ; now I began to 
learn the rudiments^ and they were not more pleasant to me 
than the pestle and mortar rudimans were to Timothy Old- 
mixon. When I went to Mr. Riley’s shop, I wondered how 
I could learn to make shoes by sewing together little shape- 
less pieces of leather, and making threads. I found that the 
rudiments of farming were more disagreeable than those of 
shoemaking. They consisted in picking up stones in the' 
furrows, and in heaping them in piles. Before night I made 
up my mind that I would not be a farmer. 

Sunday came, and I had to work — a thing which was quite 
new to me. It was not necessary work, either, else there 
would have been some excuse. The horses and the other 
animals must be fed, and the poultry must be taken care of 
on Sundays, as on other days. But on this Sunday, every 
body worked. I was sent to an- old cabbage plot, to root out 
the stumps. Every stump seemed to pull hard, as if it meant 
to be rooted out only under protest. 

The next Sunday, and almost every Sunday after, we went 
to meeting. I was very unwilling to go, for the place brought 
back to my mind the last time I went to Sunday school, and 
the confession of my father that he had done wrong in send- 
ing me there. I told my master that I did not want to go. 

Not want to go ! Why, you one small, littell bad man. 
Why you not want to go } 

My father and mother were Catholics, and 

You not mention that name to me ever once more ! You 
say it, and I beat you wis big stick. Ze Papiss are ze hogs, 
ze goats, ze brutes. Zey worship one image ; zey hang, burn, 
and kill all good' Christians. Very bad men. You not men- 
tion ze name again. 

So I had to go to meeting. I kept in my heart an ill-feel- 
ing towards it, but this slowly wore off. The minister never 
spoke of our faith, so I had nothing but my baptism, my 
father’s last words, Mr. Riley’s good offices, and my recollec- 
tions, to help me keep the resolution I had made never to go 
to meeting again. Mr. Crban was right ; my soul was in dan- 
ger here. 

I was walking to the house with master, one morning, and* 
I asked him to give me a little piece of ground for my own. 
This was in the first week of my country life. 

What will you do wis it ? 

I want to plant sortie flowers. ^ 


80 


Why you not plant some good to eat ? 

I would rather have flowers, if you will let me plant them. 

Well, I like to see flowers. You shall have one piece, and 
I will give you ze seed. 

I was very glad, for I wanted to raise a bunch of flowers, 
and send them to Mary. So I gave every spare moment to 
the little plot he marked for me, in one sunny corner of the 
field. In two months the bed looked very pretty, as I thought. 
I had planted a nice border of pinks, and in the centre I 
sowed seeds that would spring up, and form the letters I. H. 
S.,‘ with a cross resting on the bar of the letter H. The whole 
concern looked like a triumph in the art of gardening, and I 
watched its growth with pride, taking good care to remove 
every weed and stone, and I kept a bright lookout for cater- 
pillars. On both sides of the I. H. S., I planted other seeds, 
which grew, and made two names. On the right end, the 
plants made the name of John. On the other, there appeared 
Mary. I did not know whether it ought to be for Mary in 
heaven, or for my Mary. Finally I compromised the matter 
by dedicating the figure to Mary above, and devoting the 
flowers to my little Mary on earth. 

My master seldom went that way, but he came along one 
morning, with a light hoe in his hand. I had just been water- 
ing my plants. 

Ah ! you be one small, littell gardener. I like to see you 
doing such good work. You bed very handsome. I tell my 
family zey must come and see it. Ver well ! ver well ! 

I looked at him gratefully, but as I looked, there .came a 
change over his face that scared me. It grew black ; his eyes 
shone like two half-alive coals, and he shook for a minute as 
if he had a fit of ague. 

What zat, what zat } he sputtered, as soon as he recovered 
his breath. Ze cross! ze cross!! sacre ! dam! And he 
flew at my poor plants with his hoe, and he did not stop until 
the bed was a scene of ruin ; and all the time he talked 
violently to himself. When he had done, he turned to me, 
and cuffed me until I was almost blind. 

■ I teach you insult me wis plant cross in my land ! What 
you mean, you fool ? Will you do one rascal trick again ? 

When he had vented his spite, he told me to go and weed 
the onions. I went without saying a word, for I was afraid 
that he would kill me. I thought that I could kill him with 
a great deal of pleasure. But in an hour or two, these bad 
thoughts went away. 


81 


There was an old man that worked on the farm, standing 
by, and looking on all the time. While my master was hoe- 
ing up my flowers, he laughed till he cried again. While 1 
was weeding the onions, he came to me, and asked me how 
I felt. I told him that I felt very sorry. 

Well, I reckon ye do, for ye took lots o’ pains with that 
are bed. But I kinder guessed that the boss would kinder 
flare up, when he see it, though I didn’t b’lieve he’d act so 
tarnal mad. I thought heaven and airth was coming together 
when he made the hoe fly. Don’t you know what ailed 
him ? 

No, I’m sure I don’t. 

Well, you ain’t been here long, and tain’t no wonder if 
you wasn’t up to it. But it’s because you planted them gim- 
cracks and folderols. 

Which do you mean ? 

Why, them Aggers and letters in the middle of the bed. 

Why, that was the cross of Christ. 

Well, I do’ know. But I reckon that Christ, if there ever 
was sich a man, didn’t die on a, cross made out of pinks and 
hawkseye daisies. I was into Bosting, once upon a time, 
and I went to the Catholic meetin to see the raree show. 
Then I went to hear Fanny Wright in the arternoon. I went 
to them two cause we’ve got all the others out here, and I 
could see em, most any time ; though I reckon I’ve seen 
em as often, about, as I ever want to. Well, I took notice 
of every darned thing I saw in the Catholic meetin, just as if 
I was goin to hold a vandue there, next day, to sell off* the 
stock. I heerd the old priest singin hi cockolorum, and the 
choir sung amen to it, jest as if they understood it. I 
thought the priest had too much riggin about him ; what with 
ropes and swadlin clothes, he looked like a baby in a 
manger. Praps that’s what they meant him for. Then, 
every once in a while, they’d raise a darned smoke, to cure 
the smell of the place, I spose. I thought ’twas a great 
waste o’ God’s critters to burn candles in the daytime ; but 
that’s to light the souls out o’ purgatory. I’ve heerd. I took 
notice that thete was crosses all about, and on the front of 
the table there was a Agger, much like that are one of yourn 
in the middle of the bed. I guessed by that that you was a 
Catholic boy, and, says I to myself. Here’ll be a rumpus, 
when the boss sees it. So I kept as close as t could, to see 
the fun, and, by George, wasn’t he hoppin mad ! 


82 


But what did he have against the cross? There is no 
harm in it. We would have been in a bad way, if it wasn’t 
for the cross ? 

Didn’t you know that the old man was a Catholic in his 
young days ? 

No. Was he ? 

1 reckon he was. Though you -could n’t have heerd tell on 
it, cause you ain’t been here long, and- there’s few knows it 
besides me. I never spoke to him about it in my life ; if I 
did, ’tvvould be the last day’s work I’d ever do on his farm. 
But there was an old preacher, that died here bout two year 
ago, and he knew boss when he wasn’t knee high to a toad. 
He told me that boss was a Catholic boy once ; but he got 
tangled in the great bust up they had in France, when the 
king and queen and the priests was killed. Somethin or 
other he did there made him kinder hate the Catholic church, 
and it’s growed with him, so he despises the very name. 
The old man that died twitted him about it, one day, and I 
thought that boss would kill him right on the spot. 

Now you know all about it, I hope you won’t blab ; though 
’twouldn’t be healthy for you, for boss would be the death 
of ye, if he heerd ye talking about it. 

I -promised that I would not, and I went to the house, as it 
was growing late. Master came out of the barn and met 
me. 

You small rascal, you shall go from me in one hurry. I 
no have you in my house any longer. You bring bad luck 
in it, if you stop here. 

But what have I done ? I have always minded you. 
You can’t tell Deacon Mills that I’ve been a bad boy. 

I will keep you until I get one place for you, and zat will 
be to-morrow, 1 hope. Now you go. I no want to see you 
in my sight. Ze cross ! sacre, dam ! 

He went away in his chaise the next morning, and came 
back in the afternoon with an old man in a wagon. Then 
he called me. 

Here, Mr. Willard, is ze boy. You can take him now, 
and I ver.glad to do zis service for you. • 

My boy, said the old man, I am a farmer. Will you go 
with me, and work on my farm ? 

I liked his face ; it looked good natured. Yes, sir, said I. 
Where is the place ? 

It is in the farthest part of Roxbury, only a few miles from 


83 


Here. You’d better get ready, then, and jump in. We 
won’t get home much afore sundown. 

In a few minutes I was on my way to my new place. 
We arrived about sunset, and it was a very old house ; but I 
liked the change ; for, although it had never been painted, 
and was very dingy, it looked better than that hateful red 
barn. There was a kind-looking old woman in the house, 
busy getting the supper ready, and we three were the only 
inhabitants. 

Wife, here’s the boy that mounseer was talking about, this 
morning. 

Ain’t he little^ James } 

Well, he is ; but you can’t expect a boy nine year old to 
be a giant. I reckon he’s hungry ; I know I be. What ye 
got for supper.?* 

Rareoformeddlers and johnny cake. 

Well, let’s go at em ! Come, John, eat and grow fat. 

He looks a little like our Willy, don’t he, James ? 

Do’ know. You think that every boy you see looks like 
our Willy. I wish we had him now ; he’d be a great help 
to us. But what can’t be cured must be endured. 

Well, he does look like Willy, the more I look at him. 
What’s your other name, little boy } 

O’Brien. And I answered her string of questions by tell- 
ing her what had happened to me ; and she took a great 
interest in my story. On the whole, I was very glad of my 
change of quarters. These people appeared to be kind and 
sociable ; and I thought that they would talk with me some- 
times. Now, at the Frenchman’s house, I felt lonely very 
often. The family kept to themselves, and I had to keep 
company with the workmen. They would not say much to 
me, and when I asked them questions, they did not seem to 
know always how to answer them. Sometimes their talk 
was so nasty that it almost made me sick ; and I used to run 
up stairs, and sit all alone, to get rid of such hogs as one or 
two. of them were. 

One evening, they were talking about French people, and 
they had a dispute about the French revolution. Some said 
it was a good thing, because the people were freed. Some 
said that it was a bad thing, just because the people were 
made slaves. When there was a pause in the dispute, I 
spoke. 

I think that it was a very bad thing, because wicked men 


84 


killed the king and queen, and a great many priests and 
good people, and said that nobody should worship God in 
France, if he didn’t want his head cut off. 

Hillo ! what a young preacher ! Go it, little game cock. 

I took no notice of the interruption. I have heard my 
father talk about the revolution, said 1, and I learned these 
things from him. He told me one or two stories about 
Bonaparte. Now, I should like to hear some more about 
him, if one of you will please to tell me. 

Well, I’ll give you a notion about what he was, said one ; 
and you’ll know him if you see him in hell, walking about. 
You see he was a great giant, about a hundred feet high, 
and he used to wear blankets made out of the clouds, cause 
he couldn’t find cloth enough in the country to make him a 
suit of clothes. The reason why he made war with the 
Italians was, that he wanted the cupola of St. Peter’s church 
for a hat, and the pope wouldn’t give it to him without he’d 
get a streak of lightning to put into it for a feather. So 
he 

And I ran up stairs, to get rid of such stuff. 

But my new friends seemed to be different people. I had 
become shy in putting questions, because I had so often got 
either no answer at all, or rough and foolish answers. But I 
asked one or two questions of these old people, and they 
spoke so kindly, that I was glad ; and when bed-time came, 
I was not very willing to go. 

The next day, I asked the old man to give me a little spot 
of ground, that I might cultivate it at spare moments. He 
agreed to it very good naturedly ; but when I asked him for 
seeds, he said that he did not have many ; I was welcome to 
all that I could find in the house, and I might go to the neigh- 
bors, and beg a few. In this way, I collected enough for, 
my purpose, and I tried to reproduce my old bed of flowers. 

My duties here were like those of the old place, only there 
were no stones to be picked up. One part of my work was 
to feed the poultry, and I took a strange pleasure in torment- 
ing them, in fifty ways ; such as getting the chickens in 
situations inaccessible to the hen, and then watching how 
the little things clamored to get down, and the parent to get 
up. An old goose cured me of the habit of practising upon 
her relatives, by nearly breaking my arm. The dog got his 
share of teasing ; the cat, after having her feet shod, her 
nails pared, and her body wrapped in a strait jacket, fairly 


85 


ran wild in the woods. I was a terror to the dumb tenants 
of the farm, and they all ran at my approach. The cows 
shook their horns at me ; even the horse would not forgive 
me so far as to eat from my hand. The old man gave me 
many scoldings ; but the humor for mischief was too strong 
in me, and his live stock had no peace while I was about. 

Some afternoons, I had nothing to do but sit down near 
the vegetable beds, and drive the cows away when they 
happened to stray near the turnips and other things. On 
these occasions, I always had a book in my pocket, and I 
read, in season and out of season. I soon had nothing to 
read in the house, for its stock of books was not great. The 
Bible, an odd volume of plays, some old almanacs, and papers 
were quickly disposed of. Then I visited every house in the 
neighborhood, and got all the books, one after the other, and 
read them. Some of them were good, some bad, some did 
not deserve either qualification. I read them at every mo- 
ment when my work was not required, and sometimes when 
it was. The old man never see sich a crittur. Neither did 
the old woman. He would have checked my literary pro- 
pensities very often, for they cost him something, occasion- 
ally. I would go to the field to keep the cows from the 
turnips ; and when I got there, I began to read. As I read, 
the cows would come up and eat whole rows of turnips. They 
were obliged to me, but the farmer was not. One afternoon, 
he came up and saw me reading, and the cows making great 
havoc among the beds. A smart cut from his whip kept me 
wide awake the rest of the day. 

The old lady sent me, one day, with a great plate of her 
new pork, nicely roasted, to a neighbor, with the usual com- 
pliments. I went with a book under my arm, and when I got 
there, T was in a brown study about something I had read in 
it. A little girl came to the door, and I gave her the book, 
with Mrs. Willard’s compliments ; — she had just killed a pig, 
and hoped that Mrs. Holden wouldn’t be affronted at her 
sending a mess of it. Then I went home with the plate of 
pork. 

Why, goodness, gracjous, me ! exclaimed the old lady, — 
what’s the matter with Miss Holden ? Is she sick ain’t she 
at home ? 

Why, nothing is the matter. 

What did you bring back the plate for, then } Wouldn’t 
she take it } 


8 


86 


The plate ! Why, what have I done ? And I ran back 
with the pork, but the lady was angry, and she wouldn’t let 
me in. After I had knocked a good while, the window 
opened, and the book was thrown at me with such good aim 
that it knocked the plate out of my hand, and broke it. The 
house dog seemed to be the only one that enjoyed it at. all. 
Mrs. Holden did not speak to my mistress for a great while. 
A likely thing to do, she said to her neighbors. ' Me ! a pro- 
fessed Christian, in regular standing for fifty year, to git a 
mess o’ pork that wasn’t nothin but a nasty novel, things I 
never read, as every body knows ; and that to be Charlotte 
Temple ! My stars and garters ! 

But my old mistress would not let her husband deprive me 
of my books. She would have it that I looked like her dead 
boy, and she was disposed to be very good to me. So I 
went on doing my work, sometimes in a careless temper, 
sometimes in a mischievous one, seldom as it ought to have 
been done. The old man, at last, said that it was time for 
me to think of something else to do. I am sartin that you 
was never made for a farmer. Ef you had an independent 
fortin, you might be a book farmer, and have ten or twenty 
men to try all sorts of jigamarees with God’s innocent soil ; 
but you’ve got your money to make, and you won’t make it 
by working on a farm ; that’s clear as daylight. At most, 
you’d be one of those poor, miserable, good-for-nothin tools 
that go from farm to farm, lettin themselves out to do the 
worst kind of work, and never gettin ahead in the world the 
leastest mite. What do you think, yourself.? 

Well, sir, I am pretty sure that I shall never be a farmer. 
I don’t like it very well. 

That’s it ; speak right out. I don’t want to drive you out 
of the house, continued the kind-hearted old man, but ’tain’t 
fair to keep ye oilers here, knowin that you’ll have' to try 
your hand at another business sooner or later. So I thought 
I’d have a talk with ye about it, and have it off my mind. I 
guess you was made for better things than toiling and moiling 
on a farm. If you showed any turn for it, Td a kept ye 
here, as I’ve got no children, and I might a put ye in the 
way of pushin through the world. But you’ve got to be a 
minister, or a lawyer, or some other justice of the peace, or 
else I’ve missed my guess. Now it’s all understood. I would 
poke you off on some other farmer, as the mounseer did 
on me, but that wouldn’t be treatin them or you fair. Besides 


87 


I do’ know as every body would let you have your own way 
as I have. 

I felt that this was true, and I told him so. O, no matter 
for that, said he ; you’re an orphan, and I kinder felt for 
you. Didn’t you tell me that Deacon Mills found the place 
for you ? 

Yes, sir. 

Well, I’m goin in to Boston next week, and I’ll see the 
deacon. I know somethin about him, and I guess that he’ll 
find a place that’ll suit you better. So you can do your work 
as well as you can till I see about it, and then I’ll let you 
know. 

The old people were not church-goers ; so one source of 
annoyance was spared me. There was no meeting in our 
part of the town, and we never went during the three months 
of my stay with them. Master would read a chapter of the 
Bible, in the morning and in the afternoon ; and then both 
would busy themselves about domestic affairs. I studied or 
read ; for on Sundays I had little work to do, besides feeding 
the animals. One Sunday morning they both strolled over 
the farm, and when they came home, they were very curious 
about my bed of flowers. It looked nearly as well as the first 
one did, and they had a great deal to say about my taste in 
gardening. 

But I’d like to know what them figgers means, said the 
old woman. There’s the name of John at one eend, and I 
spose that’s you ; ain’t it 

Yes, it is. 

Well, who’s Mary Is it that little gal you tell about there 
in Bosting, that ain’t got no father or mother, jest like you ? 

I laughed, and said nothing. 

But that are figger in the middle beats me out. What do 
them letters stand for ? 

Jesus, the Savior of mankind. 

Law ! do tell ! Why, you’re a real little minister. I spose 
hen that cross is one of your Popisli images ; ain’t it ? 

It’s meant for the cross on which Christ died. 

O, I see. Well, it’s a pity that sich a bright boy as you 
are should a been brought up in that way. What makes you 
worship images and the Virgin Mary ? What makes you 
give the priests money for pardoning your sins, and gittin your 
souls out of purgatory ?' 

We never do any such thing. It’s all a heap of lies, said 
I, indignantly. 


88 


O, don’t tell me, for I know better. I’ve heerd our old 
minister preach about it, and he made it all as plain as 
daylight. You needn’t talk to me about it, for he was 
a good man, and he’s gone to heaven ; ^o he wouldn’t tell 
a lie. 

I’ve heard ministers say so too, said I. And I’ve heard 
most every body talk about our religion in a very silly way. 
But all that don’t make it true. I’ve got my Catechism, and 
that has got no such stuff in it. 

Well, hain’t you got the cross out there in the garden ? and 
don’t that prove what I say } Ef the priests would only jest 
let you read the Bible, you’d find out all these things for 
yourself in a little while.- 

I laughed outright. I don’t worship that image, said I. 
It’s nothing but flowers, and they are made by God, as w-e 
are. I’ll tell you what we mean by loving the cross, said I, 
eagerly, as one of my father’s stories came fresh to my memory. 
Jesus Christ died on the cross for us ; and the minute we 
look at it, it brings to our mind what he suffered that we 
might go to heaven at last. There were ten good priests in 
China, trying to convert the Pagans there. It is against the 
law to be a Christian ; and when they catch a priest, they 
kill him, if he won’t turn, and worship idols. Well, these 
ten priests were taken to the governor, and he told them that 
they must trample on the cross. They said that they would 
sooner die ; and he told them that they should have their own 
way about it. So he had them whipped till they were almost 
dead ; and then they were tied to great guns, so that their 
heads stopped the mouth of the cannon, and they were blown 
to pieces — all but one, because the gun didn’t go off. The 
governor was standing by ; and he called out to the soldier 
to stop, just as he was going to touch the powder again. 
Then the governor went up to the priest, and asked him to 
look and see what was under his feet. The priest moved his 
feet, and there were two chips of wood under one of them, 
and they were side by side. 

Do you see those chips } 

I do. 

Well, do me the favor to put your foot on them again. 
Are you unwilling to do it } 

The priest put his foot back in the place it was before, so 
that it covered the chips. 

Now take it off again, said the governor. 


89 


The priest did so. Then the governor stooped, and laid 
the two chips crosswise, so that they looked exactly like a 
cross. Now, said he, trample upon those chips again, and I 
will let you go. 

The priest looked down, and saw the cross. No, said ho. 
I have told you a hundred times that I will not do it. I can 
tread on chips, because they are only bits of wood. But you 
have made them represent the cross, and you want me to 
insult Christ, who died for you and for me. Kill me, if you 
will, but you cannot kill my soul. 

Fire away, soldier, said the governor. 

The man fired, and the clothes of the people standing near 
the gun were spattered with blood and brains. 

Now you see what we mean. It isn’t exactly the cross 
that we love, but it is the cross of Christ. We ought to love 
him too well to make light of any thing that belongs to him ; 
and when we insult his cross, we insult him. 

As to what you say about our not reading the Bible, 1 
believe that you are only joking. You know that you’ve 
many a time said that I knew more of the Bible than you do. 
You’ve seen me read it, very often. I know a good deal of 
it by heart, and I can tell a great many stories out of it. 
Look here ! 

And then I took my own Bible, and read a piece to them. 
My father had a Catholic and a Protestant Bible in the house, 
as I told you before ; and I used to read one of them as 
much as I did the other. He had no right to keep the 
Protestant Bible, as I found out when I was at Mr. Riley’s 
house, because it is full of corruptions. When he died, I was 
allowed to take a very few things with me, and one of these 
was our own Bible. So I read to the old people the story of 
the ark when it was taken by the Philistines, in the time of ' 
the judges ; and how the Philistines suffered so dreadfully 
because they had it in their houses ; and how one man was 
struck dead on the spot, just for touching it ; because it was 
against the law for any body to touch it, excepting the priests 
and Levites. Then I turned to another place, that tells how the 
ark was made, and I asked them if it wasn’t wicked for the 
Jews to pay so much honor to this wooden box, even if God 
did tell them to. 

O, that was in old times, said my mistress. We ain’t 
Jews. 

Well, said I, idolatry is always idolatry. If we worship 
8 * 


90 


the cross, and other images, then the Jews worshipped the 
ark, and the images that were m it ; and so God told them to 
worship idols. That’s pretty talk. 

I had read all this in a book at Mr. Riley s house, and I 
remembered every word. 

Go it, Johnny, said the old man. You put ft in in a way 
that ain’t slow. You’ll be a minister one of these days, that’s 
sartin. But see here ! You’re only a little boy, and you 
don’t know every thing. When you went to school, you used 
to think that the big boys knew lots ; and as for the men, you 
couldn’t touch their larnin with a ten-foot pole. Them 
feelins was natur, cause old folks oilers know more’n young 
uns. When you git to be a man, you’ll think that you were 
a little fool when you were ten year old. Now look here. 
You’ve been gulled by the priests, who don’t let you into half 
the secrets of their wicked ways. I’ve heerd stories about 
em that’s made my hair stand on eend. I’m a peaceable 
man, and I like to mind my own business ; but when I see a 
priest come out here to come his fiddlededees over an Irish 
gal that lived at Colonel Johnson’s, when she was sick ; and 
when I knowed that all he wanted was to cheat her out of her 
arnins afore she died ; and when . thought what wicked didos 
they’re oilers cuttin up, — I tell yoxi my dander riz ; and I 
itched to fly at him, and shake him so bad that he’d melt and 
run out of the toes of his boots. They’re oilers low Irish, 
them priests ; you wouldn’t git a Yankee to foller sich a dirty 
trade. Now you’re a boy, and you say one thing. But 
there’s every body agin you, and what every body says must 
be true. 

I had heard a man say worse things to Mr. Riley, in the 
shop, and I remembered the answer. 

Did Jesus Christ deserve to die } There was nobody to say 
a good word for him. Every body said that he was a bad 
man ; and, according to your rule, what every body said was 
true. 

Git aout ! Do you mean to say that your priests are as 
good as Jesus Christ } 

No, I don’t, said I, after a little pause. In fact, I was 
puzzled ; for I thought that this argument would make him 
stop ; and, somehow, he didn’t seem to understand it. I 
have often and often wondered how it is that Protestants, in 
talking about religion, don’t seem to comprehend the force of 
a reason that a Catholic child will master with ease. I do 


91 


not wonder at it now; for, in the first place, most of them 
never received baptismal grace ; and, of course, they lack 
the gift of faith. With a true Christian, faith is the sub- 
stance of things hoped for. With most heretics, it is the 
shadow of things presumed upon. Confused ideas generate 
confused language, and if people do not know what religion 
is, they cannot talk about it reasonably. I shall have to notice 
this thing again, before I finish my story. 

You needn’t think you can come Paddy over we, in that 
way. I know your priests like a book. 

Did you ever talk with a priest ? I asked. 

No, 1 have’nt. I’d like to catch one speaking to me. I’d 
reel off a piece of my mind to him ; if I wouldn’t, there ain’t 
no snakes. 

Did you ever read a Catholic book ? 

No, I hain’t got time to waste on sich. I never see a 
Catholic book ; and I did’nt know as you had any, till I looked 
at that concern that you call a prayer-book ; and I got 
enough of it arter looking at a page where you call the virgin 
sich outrageous names as mornin star, and a whole lot of 
others. I’d a pitched the book in the fire, if ’twan’t for hurtin 
your feelins. Though I don’t see what you want of books 
amongst ye. The Catholics are mostly low Irish, and Span- 
ishers, and Italians ; and they don’t know how to read, any 
more’n my puppy dog. 

But, said I, if you never talked with a priest, nor read a 
Catholic book, how can you know any thing about them } 

How ? Why, you don’t spose our ministers don’t know as 
much as your priests, do ye ? 

Isn’t Mr. Bolles, our neighbor, a great enemy of yours } 

Yes, I reckon he’d pizen me an Martha, if he could. I’m 
oilers afraid about my barn, these dark nights. But what’s 
that to do with it > 

Does he ever speak well of you } 

Faith and clams ! that he don’t. 

Now, if any body that don’t know you wanted to "make in- 
quiries about your character, would you like to have him go 
and ask Mr. Bolles ? 

Gorri ! I guess the character I’d get from him would take 
me to the state’s prison in a jiffey, sposin ’twas true, which I 
defy man or beast to make out. But what are ye drivin at ? 

What makes you go to our enemies to get our characters ? 
Whew; ThaVs it, then. Well, I glory in your spunk. 


92 


Stick it out ; never say die ! I oilers said you’d be a minister, 
or some other justice of the peace. But you won’t make a 
Papist of me, that I can tell you. And away he went. I 
walked out to look after my flowers. 

The next week he went to Boston, and when he came home, 
at night, he told me that my business was done. 

I see Deacon Mills, said he ; and he told me to bring you 
in next time I went to the city. That’ll be in a week or two. 

I told him all about you ; and I gin you a good character ; all 
-but your want of genius for farmin, and your readin books 
when ye ought to be mindin the cows ; and a little turn for 
deviltry you’ve got. I told him about your flowers, and our 
talk, last Sunday. He grinned like a chessy cat. He said 
that ’twas all owing to the kind of company you kept ; and 
that the society of proper persons would gradually eradicate 
them notions out of your mind. Deacon ’s a nice man. • 

The next week came, and the old man told me to put on . 
my Sunday-go-to-meetins, and pack up to start. . I got ready, 
and then I went to say good-by to a few of the neighbors, and 
to our animals and poultry. Then I went to the bed, and 
made three large bunches of flowers. The best one was for 
Mary. Then I went to the house, and gave the good woman 
one bunch, asking her to forgive any thing wrong I had done. 
She began to cry, and wonder how she’d feel if her Willy 
was going into the wide world, like me. 

In a few minutes we were on our way, and by one o’clock 
I was at the house of Deacon Mills, where I was received 
kindly by the children, who had all sorts of questions to ask 
about ‘the country ; and wondered how I had become so 
brown. The old man shook hands with me, and wished that 
I might get along better in my next place. And so I began • 
another chapter of my life. 


93 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE DOCTOR DISOWNS JOHN, AND THE WIDOW IS ASHAMED OP 
HIM. HE BEGINS TO KNOW HOW POOR PEOPLE LIVE. 

John, said the deacon to me, after dinner, when we were 
together in his study, I regret that you are not fitted for a 
country life. You would live longer, and you would enjoy your 
life better than in the city. Besides, my good friend, farmer 
Willard might have been of great service to you, in future 
years. But it cannot be helped. I suppose that Mr. Lanois 
found that you would never make a good farmer, and so he 
sent you to Mr. Willard. He intimated as much to me, the 
last time I saw hini. But he seemed to be disturbed at the 
mention of your name. Did any thing unpleasant happen 

I told him the story about the flowers, and the deacon laughed 
heartily at it. He is a foolish man, to make such an ado 
about nothing. • But now to business. I have tried to get you 
a place, but you are too young, as yet, to hold any responsible 
situation. In three or four years you might begin to qualify 
yourself for a clerkship. But in the mean time, you must 
earn your bread ; and 1 see no better way of doing it than by 
going into some respectable family’ as errand-boy. If you 
are fortunate enough to find the right sort of person, and if 
you do your duty faithfully, he will help you to obtain a good 
situation, without doubt. I have seen a gentleman who wants 
a boy ; it is Doctor Stillingworth. You will find him a good 
father, and I hope that you will be faithful. You must study 
in your spare hours, which will not be few ; for remember, 
that a man’s chance of rising in this country is almost always 
measured by the amount of what he knows. I have one 
strong recommendation to make. It is, that you will associate 
with no person without the doctor’s knowledge. You know 
that your father was very cautious in this respect. Always 
keep his precepts in mind. I shall expect you to visit me 
every other Sunday afternoon, after meeting, when your 
duties do not require you to be at home. That is all, I be- 
lieve. Will you go with me this afternoon, or would you 
like to wait until to-morrow ? 


94 


I thought of Mary. Sir, said I, I would Hke to wait until 
to-morrow, if you will allow me. 

Very well. I will tell the housekeeper to prepare a bed. 
You can amuse yourself this afternoon as you like. 

I had given one of my bouquets to the deacon’s youngest 
daughter, and now I started off with the best one for Mary, 

I went to the place where she was taken when her father 
died, and knocked at the door. It was opened by her aunt. 

What do you want, little boy ? 

I want to see Mary Riley. She lives here, don’t she ? 

Yes, but you can’t see her now. She is at school. What 
do you want with her ? 

I saw that she did not remember me. I did not care aboat 
telling her who I was ; for I recollected how snappishly she 
spoke to me the day Mr. Riley was buried, and how she 
said, “ You need not come near the house where we live.” 
So I said. Here is a bunch of flowers sent to her from th6 
country by one that used to know her and her father. Will 
you give them to her ? 

Yes, hand them to me. 

I gave her the flowers, and went away, very much disap- ' 
pointed because I could not see Mary. 1 knew that she would 
see my hand in the bouquet, for 1 had written my name and 
hers on a piece of paper tied around the stalks. So I started 
off, hoping for better luck next time. 

The following day I went to my new place. The family 
consisted of the doctor, his wife, two fine children, and two. 
female servants. My work was to carry messages, to wait 
upon the table, and to make myself useful generally. The 
doctor allowed me about four hours, every day, for study ; and 
he exacted a good account of my time ; so that I could not 
waste it, even if I were so disposed, as I was not. The other 
hours were taken up with my several duties ; and so the time 
passed swiftly on. 

The doctor was very particular about my company. Ho 
never allowed me to make or receive visits. He watched me 
very strictly in this matter ; in fact, it was the discipline of 
my father, and long habit had made it easy for me. So I 
made no acquaintances in the street, or any where else. 

Sunday came, and the doctor called me to his office. I had 
quite a reverential feeling for this room ; for there were 
some very large books, a huge electrical machine, some ap- 
paratus, of whose use I knew nothing, and several casts of 


95 


queer-shaped heads. As soon as I saw these things, I made 
up my mind that I would certainly be a doctor, one of these 
days. Once, when he was pretty sociable,! told him so. He 
smiled, and said that I had to travel a very long road, but that 
it was not impossible. If I would be faithful to my duties, I 
might become a doctor in good time. 

Well, he called me the first Sunday morning, after break- 
fast, and said that I must go to church, I felt very glad, and 
as much surprised when he said so, for I had no idea that he 
was a Catholic. I thanked him with tears in my eyes. 

'And you must go to catechism every Sunday morning at 
nine o’clock, he continued. I shall expect that the little work 
you have to do will be finished by eight o’clock, always. 
You will be sure to find yourself at the school by nine in the 
morning, and when the first bells ring in the afternoon. I 
shall excuse no breach .of this rule. 

I will not break it, said I. I am very glad to have you tell 
me these things. I cannot tell you how glad I am. And I burst 
into tears. I have been in the country for more than six 
months, I sobbed ; and part of the time I had to go to a 
Methodist meeting, part of the time I had to stay at home. 
And I can prepare for communion pretty soon, can I, sir ? 1 
think that I am about old enough, and I know my Catechism 
pretty well. 

Yes, if you are found worthy of kneeling at the altar^ you 
will do so shortly.' Your te'^ichers and the priest will be the 
best judges of that matter. 

And I can be confirmed,, too } 

Yes, I see no objection, if’ you be approved by your 
teachers. The bishop will administer confirmation in a few 
months, and I have no doubt that you can prepare yourself 
by that time. 

Thank you, sir ; you are very good. The first bells aie 
beginning to ring : had I not better run along, and be ir 
time } 

But you do not know the way. 

O, yes, sir, I do. I have been there before. 

Indeed, said the doctor. Well, you may go, then, and 
tell the superintendent that I sent you. I will be there in a 
few minutes. And away I went. 

We were playing at terrible cross purposes. 

I flew along, feeling so light, and moving so fast, that I 
began to think I really had wings. What a good man he is 1 


96 


thought I. How strange that he is a Catholic ! It is too good 
luck for me. 

In less than five minutes I was at the church in Franklin 
Street, then the only church in the city. I reported myself 
to the priest, who was the one that heard my first and only 
confession. 

Well, my fine little fellow, what do you want ? said he, 
patting me on the head. 

I told my story, and added, as I was told to do, that Doctor 
Stillingworth had sent me. 

He did, did he.? Well, it is very kind in him. Although 
I do not know that he has made a veiy great sacrifice in your 
behalf, by simply allowing you to save your soul. Well, we 
must be thankful even for that. It is not every one who 
would do as much. Do you know your Catechism .? 

Yes, sir. I know it all. 

Were you ever at communion? 

No, sir. 

You have not been confirmed, then .? 

No, sir. 

It is time. Teacher of the second class, step forward. A 
young man answered the summons. I knew him ; he was 
the boy who aroused my conscience two years before. You 
will take this lad, and report upon him next Sunday. If he 
is qualified, he may go into the confirmation class at once. 

I went with my teacher, and I answered all the questions 
he put to me from the Catechism. At ten o’clock we went 
up stairs, and took our, places. At the time 1 speak of, in the 
year 1829, there were not many Catholic children in Boston. 
I was thinking of it on St. Patrick’s night, in this year of our 
Lord 1850. There were more than five hundred Catholic 
girls seated in the choir, and they actually gave a concert to 
which accomplished musicians might listen with pleasure. 
Only little children can sing the praises of God as they ought 
to be sung ; and when you hear their warbling, unutterable 
feelings stir in your soul. There is a peculiar expression in 
their music, which is not to be heard from any other source 
out of heaven. It is the singing of. creatures who are, as yet, 
guiltless of deadly sin. The innocence of their hearts gives 
a soul to their music. Don’t you believe it .? Well, get a 
troop of finished opera singers to chant any simple church 
melody, say the Magnificat, or the Te Deum, and then listen 
to the same air warbled by five hundred little children that 


97 


are baptized^ Then you will know what I mean ; you will 
feel far more than you can express, if you have one spark of 
a living soul. You will understand what Christ meant, 
when He said. Suffer little children to come to Me, for of 
such is the kingdom of heaven. 

There was another attraction in this concert. The girls 
were dressed with extreme neatness, and in most cases with 
considerable taste. It was not easy to pick out a dowdy» 
looking child in the crowd. Such a troop of girls could not be 
matched in Boston. Mr. Barnard is fairly outdone at his own 
business. Such a band of young singers would be a curiosity 
in any city, not even excepting Rome. The ordinary be- 
holder wonders how in the world so many neat children were 
gathered together. If he be one of those philanthropic Prot- 
estants who do love to talk to charitable old male and female 
women about Irish dirt and misery, he will not believe his 
eyes, which tell him that Celtic blood is running in all those 
young veins. If he be a musician, and know any thing about 
drilling infant singers, he will ask what professor has done 
this } Professor Mooney has done a great thing. As a con- 
cert, simply, it was very remarkable. But a concert given 
by five hundred such children, was a very great event in the 
annals of Catholic Boston. It was a controversial sermon, 
an Irish oration, and a grand concert, all in one. Five thou- 
sand dinners, eaten in honor of St. Patrick, could not do as 
much. 

But in the time of which I am speaking. Professor Mooney 
was an infant, and his five hundred singers were unborn. 
The school children were not many ; they scarcely filled 
the space between the front pews and the sanctuary rail- 
ings. The girls sat on one side, and the boys on the 
other. Bishop Fenwick’s throne had just been built ; and, as 
I had never seen him before, and as I had read that the Pope 
sat on a throne at Mass, my mind rapidly jumped at a conclu- 
sion. It was, that the man who sat there must be the Pope.’ 
When I reached home, I told our housekeeper so, and the 
good woman was scared almost into fits. This was a happy 
morning to me ! It was the last happy Sunday I had for a 
great while. 

I wondered all the morning why Dr. Stillingworth did not 
come, as he promised to do. After Mass, my teacher walked 
home with me ; and he asked me where I had been for sev^i) 
months. I satisfied him on that head. 

9 


98 


Did I not hear you tell the priest that Dr. Stillingworth sent 
you to church ? 

Yes. Isn’t it odd that he is a Catholic > 1 didn’t know it, 

at all. 

Nor I. Indeed, I suspect that if he has been converted, it 
is within a day or two. He is a leading member of the Epis- 
copal church, and he loves the Catholics about as well as 
somebody loves holy water. 

Why, it can’t be ! He talked about the church, the altar, 
catechism, priests and bishops, communion and confirmation 
in a way that did me good. 

He did, did he > Well, we’ll see. All I have to say is, I 
hope to see you at catechism this afternoon. But I don’t ex- 
pect it. Now, my advice to you is this : When he makes 
his rules and regulations for you, and when you find that any 
of them says that you must do things that your Catechism tells 
you are wrong, you go right to Franklin Street, and ask to see 
the bishop. • You don’t know how well he will treat you ; for 
if ever a man loved children, he does. Tell him your case, 
and do just- as he says, even if a hundred doctors threaten you 
with all sorts of punishment. They can’t hurt you ; and if 
they could, what’s that to you ? Fear not them that can only 
kill the body, but rather fear Him that can cast both body and 
soul into hell fire. Now, good-by, and don’t look so fright- 
ened, as if you were going to be torn to pieces by wild hogs. 
Mind-^ though, and go to the bishop, if you want advice. That 
is very important. If you attend to it, you will know just 
what to do. And he shook hands with me, telling me again 
not to look quite so stupefied. Do not let the doctor think that 
you got that face at the Catholic church, or he will surely 
keep you from going again. 

I had not been five , minutes at home before the bell rang 
furiously. I went to answer it, and there was the doctor 
standing before the fireplace, and looking as enraged as a 
conference of evangelical ministers who have just found out 
that Popery wonH be crushed. His hands were folded behind, 
and his coat tails shook as if they were as mad as he w'as 
It was a minute or two before he said a word ; but he glared 
at me as if he expected that I w’ould creep into nothingness, 
and run out at the key-hole. But I didn’t, for 1 had done 
nothing wrong. 

You little hypocrite ! you young in years, but old in sin ! is 
this the way you mean to act } 


99 


What have I done, sir ? 

What have you done ? You make me lose my patience. 
What have you done ! You were at church to day, I sup- 
pose ? 

Yes, sir. 

O, yes, so you were ! And you were at catechism, too ! 

I was, sir. 

No doubt of it. And you are going to be confirmed, and 
approach the altar for communion, are you not ? 

I expect that I shall, sir. The priest told me this morning 
to prepare for the sacraments. 

You limb of Satan, do you dare to stand there, and lie so 
coolly Where were you this morning ? 

I went to catechism, just as you told me, sir. I expected 
every minute to see you come in, but you didn’t. I told my 
teacher what you said, and he seemed to think strangely 
about it. I told him what you said about communion and 
confirmation, and he only laughed. He didn’t believe that 
you were a Catholic, and 

What’s that.? A Catholic ! Boy, what church did you go 
to this morning .? 

.1 went to the Catholic church, in Franklin Street. 

The d , I mean, — that is, you thought I meant that 

church, did you .? 

Yes, sir. 

And then the fat doctor sat down in his chair, and laughed 
till he began to groan, and grow black. After a little while, 
he spoke very good naturedly to me. 

Well, John, I see how it happened. It’s all my fault, I 
perceive. But you must never go near that church again. 

This made me look blank. But I had rather go there, said 
I. It was my father’s church, and I don’t want to go any 
where else. I want to save my soul. 

He began to look as crossly as he did when I first went in. 
Boy, said he, I do not care about" wasting words with you. 
You must obey me, or you will suffer a great deal. This 
very afternoon you will go to Sunday school, and you will be 
regular in your attendance. Don’t make me speak again 
about it, or you will be sorry, I tell you. And now, mind 
what I say. Give up these foolish notions about your idols 
and priests, be a man, and a Christian, and you will have my 
protection through life. Now, you may go, and be ready to 
gtart with me at first bells. 


100 


I thought that I would go immediately to the bishop’s 
house, but I did not. My habit of obedience was very strong 
during-my father’s life, but my late changes of masters had 
shaken it considerably. Yet there was quite enough left to 
make me afraid to disobey a man who spoke to me as if he 
had authority. In* fact, this was a besetting evil of my life, 
and I have little more than mastered it now. I always felt the 
power of a strong mind in another. I am afraid that if the 
devil had come to me, and, without biting like a snake, or 
coaxing like a beautiful angel, would roar like a lion, I 
would, any time during the first twenty years of my life, have 
said to him. Good devil, don’t roar so ! I’ll do what you say. 
I went to Sunday school that afternoon, and then up stairs, 
to church, as they called it. The frequent use made by these 
Episcopalians of words like a/lar, bishop^ confirmation^ and 
so on, puzzled me a great deal. Then some things in their 
service put me in mind of ours ; in fact, they seemed to be, 
in some places, the same thing, in two languages. This 
made me conclude that they were playing at the game of 
being Catholics. I began to grow used to it, and at last I 
seldom thought of our church. 

One day I met with a pleasant surprise. The doctor sent 
me with a message to the house of one of his patients,. and I 
was told to walk in. The room into which I was shown was 
darkened a little, so that I could not see objects very distinctly 
at first ; but I was startled by some one who caught me in her 
arms, and kissed me until my breath was almost gone. Then 
she spoke, and I knew that it was Mary. When I had satis- 
fied myself of that fact, I returned her caresses with com- 
pound interest ; so that in five minutes we had made up for 
our long separation. 

O, John, where have you been } 

I blubbered out my story. Then I had hers. She had not 
much to tell. She was living with her aunt, and went to 
school regularly. All she wanted was, that I could be there 
too. 

Won’t they let you go to church, John } 

No, never. 

They must be cruel Arabs. I wouldn’t mind ’em in that, I 
know. I’d run away. They’d have to kill me, to make me 
go to their wicked meetings. 

But what can I do, Mary } 

Do } I don’t know. Tell ’em that you won’t do it. They’d 


101 


have to drag me there with ropes. Where is your cross, 
John ? Here is my medal, she continued, pulling it from 
her bosom. I showed her the cross. And you sent me * 
those pretty flowers ? How glad I was ! And when I found 
that you didn’t wait, I was so sorry. But we’ll grow up, and 
when we can earn our living, we’ll live in the same house, 
won’t we ? 

This was another of my sunshiny days. 

I staid in this place six months, and lost it by my mis- 
chievous pranks. I had become quite indifferent after the sight 
of Mary ; and what she said made me discontented with my- 
self, and with every body else. I did not care very much 
about going to the Catholic church ; that is, I had no notion 
of the real importance of going ; only I knew that I ought to 
be there ; I felt better when within its walls ; and I did not 
feel at home any where else. Three or four times I read the 
stories of some martyrs in one of my books, and, in the heat 
of the moment, I started to tell the doctor that I was de- 
termined to go to the bishop. But my courage only lasted 
until I got to his door. Then I thought how he would look 
black, and shake with rage, and I slunk away. 

I didn’t like the cook, and she didn’t like me. She was a 
sour .member of some out of the way meeting, and she was 
always telling me that we Catholics were not fit to live with 
civilized humans. I took no pains to win her good will ; in 
fact, I tormented her with my tricks ; and I was very saucy, 
withal. Once I put some powder in her wood. She lost her 
wig, and the same day she found it boiling in her pot. She 
seldom dared to trust me to mind the victuals that were being 
cooked, for something would surely happen to them. At last 
the doctor told me that if I did any more mischief, I should 
not stay in the house. This was because I pinned a dish- 
cloth to her gown, as she was going to the parlor to wait 
upon the table. I did not care to stay, and it was not long 
before the doctor made good his threat. 

There were an ill-natured dog and a spiteful cat in the 
house, who were always fighting with one another, or defend- 
ing themselves from me ; for I hated them, and they knew 
it. The females in the house wanted to get rid of them, but 
the doctor had his reasons for keeping the animals. One day 
I enticed them into a room, which was no easy matter, fo"^ 
they always ran as soon as they saw me. I fastened a rope, 
about twelve feet in length, to the hind legs of both animals. 


J02 


and so they were securely tied together. Then I went to a 
high window that looked into the room ; and, in a few minutes, 
* I saw the worst display of ill-temper that ever fell under my 
observation. The animals lay quietly for a minute or so. 
Then the dog got up, and walked until he came to the end 
of his tether; when he turned round, and, in his own way, 
asked the cat what she meant by it. When she felt her hind 
legs pulled, she sat erect, and looked at him with a face that 
said. Try that again, if you dare ! Presently he barked, 
and she spat. Then each raised a howl, and came to close 
fighting. They had no tender feelings for one another ; and 
so no quarter was given, or asked. In a little while, both 
turned, and ran in opposite directions ; when they were 
brought up by the rope. At it they went again, madder than 
ever, and their bowlings would have done credit to a couple 
of fiends. The dog had the worst of it, and he ran around 
the room dragging the cat after him, under and over tables 
and chairs, she all the while clawing and spitting wickedly. 
He dashed through a window, at last, dragging pussy after 
him ; and they never came near the house afterwards. This 
day was my last in that establishment ; and if I had got a 
sound flogging, it would have been richly deserved. 

A widow named Smallaxe, with her two daughters, often 
dined at the doctor’s table. She had taken a fancy to me, 
and she made the doctor promise that if he ever parted with 
me, she should be informed of it. The doctor sent me with 
a note to her ; and after she read it, she asked me if I would 
come and live with her. I agreed to it ; in the first place be- 
cause I had no situation, and then because it was quite near 
the church. So I changed my quarters that day. I was at the 
house of Deacon Mills the Sunday before, and he asked me 
how I got along. I told him that I was quite satisfied with 
every thing there, excepting my life on Sundays. I wanted 
to go to my own church. He laughed, and said that I would 
not be so uneasy about it after a little while. You don’t 
certainly think that the doctor or I will be damned ; and yet 
we are not Catholics. You must keep the commandments, 
and try to be good, and to do your duty faithfully. Then 
you will go to heaven, as all good people do. 

He told me to let him know if any thing happened ; and, 
on this afternoon, I went to his house and told him all about 
the fight. He looked very grave when I said that the doctor 
iiau turned me away, and he gave me a long lecture upon 


103 


cruelty to animals, that affected me greatly, and made me 
resolve never to offend again in this respect. This is one of 
the few good resolutions 1 have kept. When I told him that 
I had gone to Mrs. Smallaxe’s house, he said that I had fallen 
into very good hands, and that he was satisfied. Finally, 
when I was going away, he told me that if any thing should 
happen to deprive me of this place, to be sure and let him 
know it, before engaging another. But try to keep it, said 
he, for you move about too much. Here are three places 
you have had in less than two years. 

The family was made up of the lady and her two daughters, 
two female seiwants, and myself. My duties did not differ 
materially from those at the doctor’s house, and so the geog- 
raphy of the place was all I had to learn. My first trial at 
my last situation was on Sunday ; so was it here. When the 
Sunday came, I was told to get ready for school and meeting. 

I don’t want to go. 

You do not want to go ! What language is this } Go ! and 
prepare yourself this instant for Sunday school.* 

I am willing to go to Sunday school, ma’am ; but I want to 
go to my own. 

O, well ! I shall not be hard about that. I suppose that 
you want to go to the Episcopal church, where you have 
been before. Or, perhaps, when you were at home, you 
went to the Orthodox school. Well, I would prefer to have 
you attend mine, but I will not refuse to gratify you in this 
respect. 

Thank you, ma’am, then I will go directly. I’m very much 
obliged to you ; indeed I am. 

But stay a moment. What Sunday school is it? . 

The Catholic one, ma’am — out here. 

The Catholic Sunday school ? 

Yes, ma’am. 

John, is it possible that you are a Catholic boy ? Were 
your patents that superstitious church } 

They were Roman Catholics, ma’am. 

If I had known this, I would not have admitted you so easily 
into my house. However, there is a remedy. Now listen to 
me. You will go with my daughter Sarah to Dr. Channing’s, 
every Sunday morning and afternoon. She will find you a 
class and a place in the meeting-house. See that you do not 
stir out, unless she or Miss Jane is with you. And if I hear 
of your going near your Popish mass house, I will punish 


104 


you severely. Mind ! and have nothing to do with any Irish 
boys, either. I mean to make a man of you. 

But I do not want to go there. I will do every thing else 
for you ; why can’t you let me have Sunday to myself ? I’ve 
been enough to your meetings ; I’ve been most all my life- 
time ; and I want to go to church — and I will, I added, in a 
sudden fit of desperation. 

If she had got angry, I think that I should have remained 
firm. My head was full of the martyr stories in my little 
book ; and I thought that this would be a good way to begin 
my career. But she laughed heartily, and so did her two 
daughters, who had just come from their rooms. Then she 
stood up, and said in a low, but very determined voice, — 

John, go ! get your cap, and come back again ! 

I obeyed mechanically. Now you will go with my daugh- 
ters, and see that you mind every word I have told you. And 
so I went to Dr. Channing’s meeting-house, and became a 
Unitarian once more. 

I remained at this place about six months. I had no wish 
to keep it, and I was both careless and saucy. I was natu- 
rally given to these vices, but my father’s careful management 
had kept them in tolerable subjection. The unsettled life I 
had lived during the last three years had made the evil seeds 
sprout anew. My discontent kept them alive, and their 
growth was not prevented by the fact that the two women 
servants made an equal and a slave of me, as the humor 
might be. The two ladies made me study during my spare 
hours, and they would hear my lessons every afternoon. 
Companions were strictly forbidden me. I did not care much 
for this prohibition though, for I never wanted better com- 
pany than a book, at any time. My. father had kept me 
from going with boys, and, after he died, circumstances went 
to keep up the system. I was now nearly eleven years old, and 
I was as unlike boys at that age as I could well be.^ I have 
told you before that I cared nothing for the out-of-door plays 
common among boys, and I never had any out-of-door play- 
things. A top, or a battledoor and shuttlecock, quite contented 
me. Whenever I went into a house, even if it were that of a 
perfect stranger, I would run to the books, if there were any 
in sight, and cling to them so that it was no easy matter to 
get me away. All this had its effect upon my character and 
manners, of course. I was very shy with strangers, although 
it was not hard at any time to make my acquaintance. I 


# 


105 


loved to be noticed ; and, when I could, I asked questions so 
mercilessly, that two or three old gentlemen I knew began 
to gather themselves up like porcupines, when I went neai 
them. 

This way of living made people call me a strange, odd kind 
of a boy. Once in a great white, I would accidentally get 
into the company of other boys, but I never cared much for 
their sports ; besides, I was always a laughing-stock for them. 
I didn’t know how to skate. I hadn’t the slightest notion of 
the way to play marbles and props. In playing ball, I had 
to tend, because I could neither catch or give balls. I aston- 
ished a boy who was flying his kite on the common, by telling 
him to undress, and jump into the frog pond, and his kite 
would carry him over. He thought that the bath would be too 
cold. Then I told him to make an electrical machine of his 
kite ; and I showed him how to do it, as Franklin did. The 
boy thought I was crazy, and he sang out to others who were 
amusing themselves near. I had to run home as fast as 1 
could, with the loss of one of my shoes, which remained as 
a trophy in their hands. I never liked the water ; so I did not 
know how to swim. I had read in some book or other, in 
the Percy Anecdotes, I believe, that a man began to learn to 
swim by lying flat on a table, and then kicking and plunging, 
just as if he were in the water. I tried it two or three times ; 
but I stopped on account of shrieks of laughter from the whole 
family, who had been called by the housemaid, and who stood 
by the door way enjoying my antics. So the boys used to laugh 
at me, and call me a little girl that wore trousers by mistake. I 
knew more than many of them did about some things, but they 
were right in saying, as they did sometimes, that “ I was be- 
hindhand in my brought’n up, and wasn’t nothin like a reglar 
boy.” Many of them knew more than boys ought to know ; 
that was certain. Some of them were finished swearers ; 
others would say things which I did not always comprehend, 
but which were not fit for a boy’s ears. But I was seldom in 
the company of either good or bad boys. I was quite a home 
body ; and I used to hurry through my work, so that I might 
read, and dream day dreams. I grew pale and thin, and 
people said that 1 was too thoughtful. So I was, sometimes ; 
but very often I would stare at nothing with my bodily and 
mental eyes for minutes together. I used to live a fairy, or 
romantic life, half the time. 1 would imagine myself, and 
the other inmates of the house, to be any thing but them- 


106 


selves ; I would distribute my characters from the last book I 
had read. I don’t know what set me upon this odd source of 
amusement, unless it might be a story of St. Catharine which 
I read about that time, and which told how she imagined her 
father to be Jesus Christ ; her mother, the blessed Virgin ; 
her brothers, the apostles ; and herself, a maid of all work, 
who had the privilege of being near such holy persons, and 
of toiling for them every day. I didn’t like my mistresses 
well enough to imagine that they were such good people. I 
had read scarcely any novels, but the stories I had read fur- 
nished me with characters enough. The Pilgrim’s Progress 
enabled me to people the house for a month. Sometimes the 
house would be Castle Despair, and I a prisoner in it. I 
made the housemaid, who was of a veiy serious turn of 
mind, quite angry once, by telling her that I was in the valley 
of Humiliation, and she was Apollyon. This was because she 
had been worrying me about eating meat on Fridays, a thing 
which I always had to do, or else eat nothing. One Friday 
all the women conspired together, and determined that I should 
not only eat meat, but should eat fat meat. Now, I objected 
to this, because it warred with my stomach always ; I could 
never swallow it. But this was mere fancy, they said ; I 
ought not to give way to such foolish notions. So, when I 
would be very hungry, they would sometimes put fot meat 
upon my plate ; and, as I could not touch it, I got nothing 
else. On this day they threatened me with their tongues and 
with sticks, so that I was frightened, and I tried to swallow a 
little, but it was of no use ; and the scene which followed 
relieved me from any more active persecution in this matter. 
I happened to be reading Telemachus about that time, and I 
thought that I was fully revenged by changing names with 
that hero, and calling them Harpies, Gorgons, Chimaeras dire, 
Cerberuses, and so on. 

One day, after I had been there nearly six months, I was 
passing the door of the bishop’s house, in Franklin'Street, and 
1 saw him enter. I stopped, and looked so earnestly at him, 
that he smiled at me ; and he seemed so good natured,that I 
went up to him, and said that I wanted to say something to 
him. He told me to follow him up to his room. I obeyed, 
but trembling in every limb. I had never seen him, except- 
ing upon the altar, and I had supposed that he never dressed 
like common people. I had no particular motive in speaking 
to him now, only^ I felt that it was a good chance, and I 


107 


femembered how my teacher charged me to go to the bishop 
if any thing should happen. As I went up stairs, I wondered 
what I should say. I knew that I needed encouragement and 
advice ; but my heart was so full, that I did not know what 
to say first. He unlocked his door, and told me to go in and 
sit down, and he would attend to me soon. I did so. 

I forgot all my trouble though, when I went into the room. 
There were more books than I had ever seen before, and they 
were piled against the walls, covering every inch excepting 
the door and windows. I thought what a very learned man 
he must be, and I wondered whether he had read them all 
through. By the time he returned, I had quite forgotten 
the feelings that made me stop him in the door way. 

He came in his episcopal dress. I stood up, and he made 
the sign of the cross upon my forehead. Then he went to 
his seat, which was a big arm-chair behind a great desk, 
covered with books and papers. I felt my old fear reviving, 
in spite of myself ; for all that I heard and read in Protes- 
tant Sunday schools, and in other places, was calculated to 
make me hate and fear a Catholic bishop. I knew that it was 
nonsense, but I could not shake off a feeling which made me 
wish to get out of the room before any danger befell me. 
Then the bishop always looked so grand in church, that I did 
not think he spoke to any body ; or, at all events, to a boy like 
me. But he looked so pleasantly when he sat down, and 
asked my name in such a mild way, calling me his dearest 
child, that I was quite overcome, and my only answer came 
in sobs that almost choked me for a few minutes. At last I 
recovered my voice, and told him my name. 

But you are in some trouble. Come nearer to me — nearer ! 
so ; and he put his arm round my neck. Now do not be 
afraid. Tell me just as if I were your own father ; as indeed 
I am. 

Well, I had a long tale to tell him ; but by putting skilful 
questions, he knew at last my whole story, and what was the 
matter with me. 

My dear little child, said he, did you ever go to confes- 
sion ? 

By this time he had made me laugh more than I had for a 
whole year. Sometimes he put such funny questions ; and 
then he would make remarks in such a comical way ; and 
he had told me three or four pleasant little stories while lis- 
tening to mine, so that he had won my whole confidence. 


108 


Yes sir, I went once, three years ago, before my father died ; 
but I didn’t like it. 

Indeed ! and why not ? 

1 told him honestly how I felt on that occasion, and he 
laughed heartily. It was a pleasure to see him laugh ; he 
did it with his whole soul and body. Some people only laugh 
with their mouths ; but the bishop laughed with his eyes, with 
every feature of his face, and all the way down his body, as 
far as I could see. 

But where did you get these ideas ? said he. 

I told him about the Sunday school books I had read, and 
then he looked very grave. My dear boy, said he, others 
were to blame more than you were for this. But it is need- 
less to talk about it now. I shall expect to see you^ften,and 
I will say something more at a better opportunity. Now, 
you want to know what you must do in the place where 
you are.^ 

Yes, sir. 

You have not been to church for a year, and you have gone 
to places of meeting which God does not approve. What is 
the first commandment of the Church ? 

To hear mass, and to rest ' from servile work on Sundays 
and holidays of obligation. 

Do you mind these holidays } 

No, sir, never. 

What is the second commandment, where it speaks about 
abstinence } 

To abstain from flesh on Fridays, and other appointed days 
of abstinence. 

Do you keep this commandment } 

I cannot, sir. I never get any thing else. And then I told 
him about the fat meat. 

What is the third commandment ? 

To confess our sins, at least once a year. 

When do people begin to be obliged to confess ? 

About the age of seven years. 

How old are you ? 

Almost eleven. 

Now, are we bound to obey the commandments of the 
Church .? 

Yes ; because Christ has said, he that heareth you, heareth 
me ; and he that despiseth you, despiseth me. 

So, when we disobey the church, we disobey God ? 


109 


Yes, sir. 

Now, when God tells us to do a thing, and a man tells uh 
not to do it, which must we obey r 

We must obey God. 

Suppose, though, that this is a very strong man, that threatens 
to beat you, and perhaps to kill you, if you do not mind 
him ? 

No matter. Fear not him who can only kill the body ; but 
rather fear Him who can kill both body and soul. 

Now, my dear boy, don’t you see exactly what you ought 
to do in your place there ? 

I reflected a moment. Yes, sir, but I wish I had a little 
more courage. 

He laughed again, and told me a nice story. Now, said 
he, where do people get courage ? 

I don’t know, sir. I suppose they get it naturally. 

Do people obtain naturally the courage to do good ? Think 
a moment. Can we do any good of ourselves ? 

No, we cannot, without the help of God’s grace. 

How can we obtain God’s grace ? 

By prayer. 

Very well. Now, my dear boy, do you say your prayers ? 

No, sir, I do not very often. Sometimes 1 think of them, 
but these Protestants have put them out of my mind. They 
like to do all their praying together, in the meeting, or in the 
parlor ; that is, when they pray at all. But so many of them 
have laughed at me, that I got out of the way of it. 

That is a pity, but you must begin again ; for unless you 
pray, you cannot save your soul. You will, perhaps, have tc 
live with Protestants all your lifetime. They are very nu- 
merous, you see, and we are few. Besides, we are poor ; 
and our Catholics depend upon them, in most cases, for a 
living. You will be very fortunate, more fortunate than the 
greater number of Catholics are, if you can get along in the 
world without coming in contact, at every step, with men who do 
not know what your religion is, and who hate it. So there will 
be no day in which you will not have to think of what you 
said just now, that we must obey God rather than man. 
When you stand before God, as you will as soon as you die, 
he will ask you if you have kepf his commandments ; and 
if you say no, he will not take any excuse about other people 
laughing at you, and the like. So remember that you must 
go to confession regularly. You must obey all the com- 
10 


ilo 

mandments of God and of the Church ; and if, at any time, 
you think that you cannot, you must tell your director exactly 
how you are situated ; and he wil' tell you what you must do. 
There will never be any excuse for neglecting your prayers. 
You will seldom, if ever, be so sick, or so hurried, that you 
cannot find time for a few simple ejaculations — for an Our 
Father, and Hail Mary ; for the Acts of Virtue. And remem 
her this. No doubt it is unpleasant to kneel and say your 
prayers while bad people are laughing at you. But make an 
effort — say your prayers for all that. They will torment 
you for a few days ; but when they see that you are determined, 
they will say no more about it ; and you will always have 
peace. But if you let them see that you are afraid of their 
laughter, if you pray one day, and neglect that duty for a 
week out of human respect, they will never let you alone. 
Now, sit down a minute. And he took a sheet of paper, and 
wrote a note. After he had folded it, he gave it to me. 
There, said he, carry that to your mistress. I am not sure 
that it will answer the purpose, but it may. At all events, re- 
turn to me soon, and tell me how you get along. Recollect, 
1 shall expect to see you often. Will you not come ? 

Yes, sir. Pm sure I will. I never had any one talk to me 
so, since my father died. Very few people take the trouble 
to treat me as if I had any sense. 

Now kneel down, said he. I obeyed, and he gave me his 
blessing. It seemed as if I could feel it falling upon my soul. 
As I went away, I wondered why my father had. never taken 
me tp him, and why I had not gone to him before. But I 
resolved to make amends for past neglect. Going out, I saw 
a little boy like myself, who appeared to be engaged about 
the house. O, how I envied that boy ! 

When I went out into the street, I remembered that I had 
been sent by the young ladies upon an errand ; and upon a 
very important one too, as they said. It was necessary for 
me to run, to fly, so as not to be too late. I had a note to 
carry to a fashionable bonnet maker, and I was running, 
when I saw the bishop entering his house. And I had been 
in his room nearly two hours ! I made the best of my way 
to the bonnet store, and ggive my note to the lady there. As 
soon as she read it, she told me to tell the young ladies that 
she was very sorry, but the Misses Snob had only left the 
store five minutes before, with the articles in question. She 
would have been happy to accommodate the Misses Smallaxe, 


Ill 


but as they could not decide yesterday upon taking the bon- 
nets, and as the Misses Snob were good customers, she 
had allowed them to take the bomiets. Besides, she was 
afraid that the articles might remain upon her hands. She 
was very sorry ; hoped that tlie ladies would see that she 
wasn’t to blame. And this was the message I carried home. 
The young ladies were in the parlor with their mother ; and 
the instant I came into the house, the bell rang. 

I reether guess you’ll catch it, remarked the serious house- 
maid. They’ve bin in a precious snarl about their old bon- 
nets. I think they’d better be thinking about the state of their 
souls. But these Unitarians don’t know what vital religion is ! 
Our housemaid was a Methodist. 

What kept you so long What did she say ? asked both 
/adies in a breath. The old lady looked at me as if she had 
something in store for me after I had squared accounts with 
the young ones. I repeated my message. 

What a shame ! Mrs. Howard walked to her pew so con- 
sequentially last Sunday, with her new bonnet, and every 
step seemed to say. Look at it ! There are not many of you 
who can show any thing like it ! 

And the Misses Snob, how strut into meeting next 

Sunday ! chimed sister Jane. 

And only twelve of them were imported, rejoined the 
other. I declare it is a shame ! Why didn't we engage them 
yesterday } 

Mrs. Lovelace won’t sell any more bonnets to me. 

Nor to me. But, she continued, turning to me, did you go 
straight to her shop, as we told you ? 

No, ma’am. I was running, and 

What ! interrupted .the eldest. Stop ! Sister Jane, leave 
him to me. Now, sir, how long is it since you were at the 
shop } - ’ 

I just came from there, ma’am, and 1 ran as hard as I 
could. 

Then it’s your fault, they both shouted. Where were you > 
Why did you not obey orders ^ Mother, continued the eldest, 
send him away. He never minds his duty. 

Yes, do, mother. I shall never be able to bear the sight of 
him after this. 

We’ll see, said the old lady. Now, John O’Brien, where 
have you been } Tell the truth. 


112 


I took the bishop’s note, and handed it to her. This will 
explain every thing, said I. 

She took the note, while the young ladies looked over her . 
shoulder to read its contents. When she ’ read the first 
word, she stopped, and looked at the signature. No sooner 
had she seen it, than she gave a faint scream, and dropped 
the letter. Then the three looked at one another with a comi- 
cal expression of astonishment and anger. 

The bishop of Boston ! 

The pope of the Paddies ! ! 

The emissary of the Man of Sin writing to me ! The world 
must be coming to an end ! 

Let us see what is in it, said one of the girls. 

The old lady picked it up, and held it from her as a Prot* 
estant Sister of Charity would a letter written in a cholera 
hospital. She read it through with a severe oduntenance, and 
then she said, — 

Jane, take the letter, and put it among my papers. It 
will serve to remind me of this day, in which an overruling 
Providence, for its own wise purposes, has permitted an 
epistle from a Popish emissary to reach me! Did I ever 
expect to see this day ? But it is a clear case of interference 
in our domestic concerns. It proves what has been said so 
often, that not even the sacredness of the domestic circle is 
an effectual bar to their officious meddling. To think of his 
daring to recommend a course to be pursued by me with 
reference to my servants ! But he has reckoned without his 
host. Then she turned to me, and sharply demanded how 1 
came to see the bishop. I told her about the accidental 
meeting. 

Did he speak to you first, and invite you to go up ? 

Yes — no — not exactly — that is, he 

Don’t equivocate, sir. Tell me, did you not want to see 
him ? 

I did, said I, stoutly. 

O, you did ! Well, and you told him so, did you not ? 

I did. 

Have I not told you repeatedly that you were not to speak 
to that sort of people } 

I was silent. 

Speak, sir ! 

It is better to obey God rather than man, said 1. 


113 


They stared at one another for a moment, and then the 
young ladies laughed heartily. 

•The devil quoting Scripture, said one. 

And quoting to justify his wickedness, rejoined the othei. 

John O’Brien, resumed the mistress, what did he say to 
you ? And what did you say to him in your long conference.^ 
Give me an exact account of what passed between you. 

I cannot do any such thing, ma’am. 

O, you cannot. Cannot is the word, is it ? But you need 
not accuse yourself. We know the information that sort of 
people try to get out of servants, without your telling us. Of 
course, you told him all the affairs of this house. 

I did no such thing, ma’am. I told him no body’s business 
but my own, and that I’ve a right to tell any body I like. 

0 ! go on. Master O’Brien. 

1 told him that I wanted to go to my Church, and you 
wouldn’t let me. That was all I said about you. And I had 
a right to do it. You haven’t got my soul to save, Mrs. 
Smallaxe. If I go on minding you about going to meeting, 
and neglecting my duties, I shall go to hell. 

Jc4m O’Brien, said the venerable lady, listen to me ! I’m too 
old to be spoken to in this way by a boy, and he my servant 
too. This is your last day in my house. To-morrow, after 
breakfast, you may go about your business- I send you away 
for several reasons. In the first place, you are saucy and 
careless. You have neglected a very important errand this 
very day. Then I strictly forbade you to have any thing to 
do with Popish companions, and you have disobeyed me ; 
nay, you have insulted me by thrusting their letters into my 
very face ; letters, too, addressed to me. Here the good lady 
paused to breathe. Besides, I could not feel safe, after this. 
Every thing said or done in my house might be reported to 
the Inquisition. I have lost all confidence in you, and we must 
part. I am sorry, for I hoped that you would become a useful 
member of society. But the dream is over, and I am glad 
that I have been undeceived so soon. To-morrow, you will 
leave my house; and tell your bishop, as you call him, that 
if he sends me any more letters, I will lay them before the 
city authorities ; as a proof that, even in this blessed Protestant 
country, the emissaries of the Pope have already begun .to 
invade the family altar. Begone ! 

And the next morning I was turned out upon the world 
once more. But I was used to it now. 

10 * 


114 


Four different places in less than four years. Well, 1 could 
not quite help it. My two situations in the country were good 
enough ; and the last was an excellent one, only Heaven never 
meant that T should be a farmer. I might have staid at the 
doctor’s house, were it not for my mischievous pranks, my 
careless habits,. and my saucy tongue. Yet it was well that I 
left it, for I was beginning to fall into Protestant fashiohs as a 
matter of course. The immediate cause of my present dis- 
charge was my disobedience in going to the bishop ; but the 
maids often complained of my impudence and heedlessness ; 
and I suppose that they had some reason. I teas a saucy dog. 
I had been growing up pretty much in my own way since my 
father died. After leaving Mr. Riley’s house, J had been in- 
structed only in the duties of this world ; and the interests of 
my soul were left uncared for. Excepting the bishop and 
my Sunday school teacher, no one had given me a word of 
sound, spiritual advice. I had never been to confession, to 
mass, or to catechism. I had almost forgotten how to say 
my prayers. I was getting to be a very nice Protestant. 
Now, the best boy in the world would suffer in similar circum- 
stances ; and I was never an infant phenomenon in the way 
of sanctity. So it is not to be wondered at if the lessons which 
my father so carefully taught me were gradually forgotten. 
Even if he had attended to my spiritual wants as carefully as 
he did to my worldly behavior, I would not have been too 
well forearmed against the dangers inseparably joined to my 
present way of living. But he did not. When he died, I was, 
to all intents and purposes, a Protestant boy, only I was bap- 
tized ; I knew the Catechism, and I knew that it was not 
right to go to Protestant meetings. I have mentioned that I 
dedicated my flower-bed to Mary, the mother of God. But 
let no one suppose that I did this because 1 cared much for 
her. I knew that there was such a person, and that she was 
entitled to a love she did not get from me. I said the Plail 
Mary, it is true ; but with about as much reverence as a 
boy, whom I knew, felt when he was called upon to recite the 
angelical salutation. The words did not readily occur to him ; 
but the gibberish well known to schoolboys in choosing 
players for certain games was all that he could think of ; so 
he very gravely recited, haley maley, tickma,- and so on. 

If I had been taught to love her when I was a little child, I 
would have been provided with a good sword and shield. \t 
is the easiest thing in the world to teach a child to love the 


V 


115 


blessed Mary, and no tongue can tell what a safeguard it is 
against many dangers, but more especially against the sin of 
impurity. Engrave her name after that of Jesus on the heart 
of a child, and it cannot be effaced; you have done a work 
that all hell cannot undo. You can trust your child out of 
your sight with comparative confidence, because you will be 
sure that if he hears or sees a polluting thing, he will be likely 
to remain unstained ; he is in his mother’s arms. He may 
forget her in after years ; he may yield to temptation ; and 
yet he cannot quite forget her. Now and then she will' 
whisper in his ears the name of her Son ; now and then she 
will show him the crucifix, and she will gently draw his heart 
until it is poured out in sorrow at the feet of Christ. Let her 
name be one of the first which he learns to pronounce, and, 
most likely, it will be one of the last to pass his lips when he 
dies. The responsibility of a parent is great ; in one sense, 
it is fearful ; but if this be faithfully done, the work is solidly 
commenced. There is no surer sign of predestination than a 
true love for Mary, the mother of God. And this love is 
easily infused into the heart of a little child. Then teach it 
to your children, and you may be sure that you have put 
them into a sure road to heaven ; a road which is less easily 
lost, because the heart of Mary is a finger-post at every 
turning ; and it points steadily to the city of God. 

The next morning I went to the bishop’s house to tell him 
what had happened. But he was gone. There were not 
many priests in Boston then, and a sick call, or something of 
the sort, had taken him suddenly to Maine. 

I went to Mary Riley, and I had the good fortune to see 
her. She was yet kept at school ; and it was the intention 
of her uncle to provide well for her education, because she 
possessed fine talents. I had seen her twice during my stay 
at Mrs. Smallaxe’s house. But I went this time to see if I 
could not get into a Catholic family ; for I felt myself grow- 
ing worse every day ; and I did not know any other means 
of stopping the evil. Mary was very sure that, if I would tell 
her uncle my story, he would do something for me. I 
told him ; but he was a hard, money-loving man, and he saw 
no difficulty in the matter. Mind your duties, said he, and 
say your prayers. If you get into a place where they won’t 
let you do as you ought, go somewhere else. The world is 
wide, and there are more people in it besides Dr. Stilling- 


116 


worth and Madam Smallaxe. Besides, I like to see a lad 
battling with the world. You will learn more in a month of 
this kind of life, than you would in six years spent under the 
care of friends. Try to help yourself, and God will help you. 
When you get to be a man, you will be glad that you were 
tossed about the world so. And he led me to the door, and 
bade me go, in the name of God, and try my fortune. I 
w’anted to see Mary again, but he would notallow it. He said 
that he meant to bring her up for better society, and I was 
not fit company for her. 

I tried to think who would do any thing for me, and there 
was only Deacon Mills and Mr. Groan. I had visited the 
deacon regularly, as he told me to do ; but I did not want 
to try him until every other expedient failed. I could 
not help remembering that he had always taken care to get 
me into Protestant families ; and I knew by experience that 
I never felt so much like a Protestant as I did at his house. 
Besides, I was aware that he would blame me for going to 
the bishop, and that he would not like my present anxiety to 
get into the society of Catholics. So 1 made my way to Ann 
Street, where Mr. Groan lived. I had seen him two or three 
times during the last year, and I knew that he kept at his old 
quarters. 

I knocked, and a faint voice told me to come in. I had 
come to a house of misery. He was lying beside his wife, 
on a wretched bed ; and there was no fire, neither had there 
been any, apparently, for many hours. The same old furni- 
ture was to be seen, and there was the bed on the floor, in 
the corner ; but where were the children .? They had gone 
to the bosom of Christ, who loved them, and so hastened to 
take them to heaven before they knew sin. 

When I went to the bed, I was frightened, for I thought 
that she was dead, she looked 'SO pale and wasted. But she 
opened her eyes, and smiled, and then I knew that she was 
alive. He did not look very sick. It is true that he was 
thin, but then he always was ; and now his cheeks were as 
red as roses, and his eye was very bright. I did not know 
that a fever was raging in his veins. 

John, said he, you are welcome ; you are sent by God to 
us, for we are quite alone, and another day like this would 
finish us. The people in the other part of the house are 
gone, I believe, for no one has been stirring for some time. 


117 


I have not seen a human face for twenty-four hours, and here 
is my wife dying at my side, while I am helpless. I tried to 
get up this morning, but I fainted, and fell on the floor ; and 
she had to lie there, and look at me. When I came to my- 
self, I crawled to bed as well as I could, and we made up 
our minds to die here alone. My children are gone; the last 
one died about a month ago. What a mercy ! for we are not 
tortured by their cries for bread, when there is none to give 
them. There is not a crust in the house, and I have no 
money. My rent is due, and the landlord could turn us out 
into the street. 

I had never heard, seen, or dreamed of misery like this 
before. I did not think that such things were possible. I told 
him that I was out of a place, but if he would let me lie on 
the bed in the corner, I would tend him, run errands, and get 
what was wanted. 

God bless you, my boy, said he. Mary has sent you 
to us. 

And now, said I, what do you want first 7 You want a 
doctor, I should think, for her ; and something to eat, for 
yourself. You want some medicine, and a fire too, although 
it is April. Where is the wood } 

There are the ashes of our last stick. I will tell you what 
you may do first. I cannot eat any thing, if I had the best 
victuals in the world, for I’ve got a bad fever. What I want 
you to do for me is, to go to the closet, and fill the big stone 
pitcher with cold water ; you will find the pump in the yard. 
Fill it, mind ; I am choked, I have drank nothing for a day, 
and more, and I feel that a drink of cold water will do me 
more good than any thing else. Then you may go to the 
church, and ask for a priest to come here this evening. I was 
afraid that my wife would die without the sacraments ; but God 
is always good, even when we do not deserve any thing. 
Then, if you choose, you may go for a doctor. I do not 
think it will be of much use ; and I am ready to die, if my 
time has come. But you must have something to eat, and 
there is nothing in the house. 

Don’t worry about me, said I. And I ran to fill the pitcher 
with cold water. He looked at it, when I brought it in, as if 
it were made of gold and diamonds. There was an old table 
standing at the head of the bed, and he asked me to set the 
pitcher on the end nearest him. Then he raised himself 


118 


up, as well as he could, and grasped the pitcher with botn 
hands, while I steadied it for him. And then he began to 
drink. 

Yes, he hegan^ and I thought he would never leave off. 
His wife spoke to him with a whispering voice, and begged 
him not to drink too much. Still he drank on. He scarcely 
stopped to breathe, and he drank so eagerly, that his bosom 
and neck were all wet. I began to be frightened, and I tried 
to pull the pitcher away ; but he clung to it with the grasp of 
a dying man. I could not think where he put so much water ; 
but at last his hold relaxed, his eyes closed, and he fell- back 
upon the bed. I thought he was gone ; but he had only 
tainted, as it appeared. His wife asked me to go for the 
doctor as quickly as I could. I remembered seeing a doctor’s 
sign at no great distance, and I started off immediately. He 
was not at home ; so I went to the next, and the next, until I 
found one, who heard my story, and in a few minutes went 
with me to the house. 

Mr. Groan had come to his senses, and he was sweating 
profusely. The doctor looked at the pitcher, to see how 
much water he drank, and then he felt his pulse as much as 
five minutes, without saying any thing. After that, he looked 
at Mrs. Groan, and shook his head. 

This woman is past curing, said he. All we can do is, to 
relieve her, and make her as comfortable as possible while 
she lasts, which will not be long. As for the man, I cannot 
say any thing now. It was a dangerous thing to drink that 
water, but I am not sure that it will not save his life. It was 
a desperate remedy, though. I will know more about him to- 
morrow. Then he wrote two prescriptions, and looking round 
the room, he asked if we had any money to buy medicine. 
For they seem to be. wretchedly poor, said he. I had told him 
that I did not belong to the family. 

They have not a cent in the house, said I. But I have got 
a little of my own, and I will spend it for them. 

Yoii need not spend it for medicine then, said he. And he 
wrote a line upon the paper, signing his name to it. Now, 
carry this to the dispensary, and they will give you the medi- 
cine. I will call to-morrow. 

I went for the medicine, and stopped on the way tc leave 
the message at the bishop’s house. When I got home, I gave 
them the medicine, as the doctor ordered, and then I went 


119 


out, and bought a loaf of bread and some cheese, for 1 was 
hungry. I had nearly ten dollars. Doctor Slillingworth had 
given me a suit of clothes while I was there, and when I went 
away, he gave me five dollars. Mrs. Smallaxe had done the 
same, and I had only spent a dollar, or so, for paper, pens, 
and a knife. I saved my money to buy a library, for I 
thought that twenty dollars would get an incredible lot of 
books. But here was a better use for the money. 

The priest came in the evening. It was my old friend, the 
confessor. He remained about half an hour, and as he went 
away, he put some money in my hand for the poor people. 
After he had gone, I went out to buy some oil, and when I 
returned, Mr. Groan was sleeping soundly. I trimmed a 
lamp, and after waiting a while to see if he would wake up 
and want any thing, I threw myself upon the straw in the 
corner, and in a few minutes slept soundly. 

The sun was shining brightly when I awoke. I started up, 
and asked the sick people how they felt. She wanted a little 
drink, that was all. She breathed very hard, and there was. 
a*’ rattling sound in her throat. She told me to get for him 
what he wanted, for she was already in tender and merciful 
hands. He said that he was a great deal better, and, in fact, 
felt so well, that he had tried to get up while I was asleep, 
but he was too weak, weaker than he thought he was. I gave 
them the medicine, as the doctor told me ; and a little while 
after I had eaten my breakfast, he made his appearance. He 
said that the woman was failing very fast, Mr. Groan was 
better, the fever had left him, and all he had to do was to gain 
strength. 

God give it to me, if it be His will, said the poor man. I 
shall need it soon for my wife’s sake. 

Well, cheer up, said the doctor. Things do not look so 
badly as they did yesterday. Then he left some more pre- 
scriptions, and after telling me what to do, he went away. I 
went to get the medicine, and before I left the store. Deacon 
Mills walked in. He asked me who was sick, and he seemed 
quite surprised when I told him how I had left my place. 

This roving disposition will do you no good, said he. I 
wish that you would stay in one place a little longer. People 
will be unwilling to take you, by and by. 

Well, we will see what can be done. Where are you stay- 
ing now ? 


120 


I told him, and I said that I would not leave the family in 
their present state, if I starved. I asked him if something 
could not be done for them. 

Are there any children there } he asked. 

I told him they were dead. Well, said he, I will go with 
you to his house. 

Mr. Groan did not look much pleased to see the deacon, 
but he thanked him, though. The old man asked him some 
questions, and then went away, telling him to trust in the 
Lord, and whispering me to be sure to come to his house when 
I left this place. 

He had scarcely gone when the priest entered the room. 
He looked at Mr. Groan, and said that he was getting on finely. 
Then he began to give Mrs. Groan the last sacraments. He 
told me to stand near and serve, which I was very willing to 
do, only I didn’t know what he wanted. However, I obeyed 
his directions, and he seemed satisfied. When he was going, 
he asked if Deacon Mills had been in the r©om. I told him 
he had, and how I met him in the shop. 

Do you know him ? he asked. 

O, yes, sir. I have known him for a great many years. 
And then I told ’him how the deacon had got so many places 
for me. I asked him if he did not remember that Sunday 
morning, at catechism. 

After a little, he said he remembered it. I told him 
what a mistake I made about the doctor’s being a Gatholic, 
and he laughed heartily. Then I told him how 1 had left 
both places, and that the deacon would probably find me 
another. I would rather live in a Gatholic family, said I, 
because the Protestants are not willing that I should go to 
church. Then he told me to call and see him after Mr. Groan 
got well ; perhaps he might get me a good place. 

That morning, a small load of wood came to the door for 
Mr. Groan. A man stopped to saw, split, and pile it away. 
He said that the deacon had paid him for the job. We heard 
people talking in the other part of the house, and Mr. Groan 
asked me to go and see if the family hadn’t returned. Mrs. 
Greech will come in, said he, and do a little for us. She 
is a kind woman, and my wife sadly needs a little female 
care. 

I went accordingly, and Mrs. Greech followed me to the 
sick room. O, Mr. Groan, said she, how sorry I am that we 


121 


# 


should have been gone just at this time ! We haven’t been in 
the country to see my folks for seven years, and we thought 
that ’tvvould be a good time, when husband had an idle week. 
But Pm sure I shouldn’t have stirred a step, if I had thought 
that you were going to lie here, all alone in the house, you 
and your poor wife. And the kind woman began to bustle 
about, setting things in order. Pve only got back half an hour 
ago ; and now Pm here, Pll see that you shan’t want for care 
She kept her word, for she was in the room half the time, 
until all was over. 

I read prayers, and a litany every morning, noon, and 
night, at Mr. Groan’s request. His employer came twice to 
see him while I was there, and left five dollars on the table 
each time, telling him that he might have ten years to pay it. 
Mrs. Groan lay in the same state, day after day ; sometimes 
she seemed about to die, then she would rally a little. But 
not a murmur crossed her lips ; in fact, when she was awake, 
she always seemed to be praying. Waking or sleeping, her 
beads were in her hand. But her husband was able to sit in 
the chair a great deal, after I had been there four days, and 
what with Mrs. Greech’s care, and her medicines, she did not 
suffer so much. I think a change of sheets and pillows did 
her more good than any thing else. 

At last she died. It was about two weeks after I came to 
the house. Mr. Groan had become pretty smart, only he was 
not strong enough to go to work. I was going out, when he 
called me back, and asked me to read the last prayers. She 
was dying at last. Her eyes were very glassy, and her features 
pinched a little ; but she did not seem to suffer much, and she 
was trying to feel her beads, while a pretty smile lit up her 
face. He held her in his arms, and when I had finished, she 
whispered the names of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, when she 
went to see them in heaven. 

11 


CHAPTER V. 


JOHN RESOLVES TO BE A CHRISTIAN, AND BREAKS HIS RESO 

LTJTION. HE FALLS INTO A TRAP. HE DREAMS THAT HE 

IS SENT TO THE HOUSE OF REFORMATION. AWAKES AND 

FINDS HIMSELF THERE. 

The day after the funeral, I went to see the priest. He 
was at home, and he told me that I was in good time. 
There is lawyer Black, said he, who wants a boy in his 
office. He is a good friend of mine, and he will not make 
any difficulty about your going to church. Besides, he says 
that you may have Wednesday and Saturday afternoons for 
catechism. That is very kind in him. I want a teacher in 
one of the prayer classes, and you might help me somewhat. 
Then all you will have to do will be, to open the office, 
sweep it, and light the fires. You will have to do all his 
errands, and I think that you will not find enough work to em- 
ploy you half the time ; so there will be a fine opportunity 
for study. 

Will I live with him, .sir > 

O, no ; he has a house boy. I should think that you have 
had enough of that kind of work. But I heard Mr. Groan 
say something yesterday about a place for you. Speak to 
him about it, and if he does not know where to find a home 
for you, I will try to think of something. Lawyer Black will 
give you a dollar a week. That is not much, but you can 
get along with it for a year or so. After a while, he will put 
you in the way of earning a little during the many spare hours 
you will have. He will give you clothes, too, if you suit 
him, as I don’t doubt you will. And remember that many a 
man, who now stands high as a lawyer, began life just as you 
are beginning it — a poor office boy. 

When I went back to the house, I told Mr. Groan all about 
it. Well, John, said he, would you like to live with me I 
told him that nothing would suit me better. Well, then, it is 
a ‘bargain, said he. I have a sister who is a widow, and gets 
her living by making. coats. She has no children now, and I 
have written to her, and asked her to come and live with me. 


123 


I shall feel more comfortable with her than I would in a board, 
ing-house. I am used to a quiet home ; and, although God has 
taken my family, he leaves me these four walls, and I don’t 
want to say good-by to them, for they have seen us in joy 
and in sorrow. My sister has agreed to come, and I expect 
her to-morrow. I will hire another room in the house, now 
that Mr. Creech is going to move, and you can stay with us. 
Between us all, we will manage to live, if we get the bless- 
ing of God. 

I was very glad to hear this, for my fortune was now made, 
as I thought. At any rate, my mind would be easy about 
church-going. Mr. Groan’s sister came the next day, and 
she was immediately made sole mistress of the establishment. 
He was the caliph, and I the grand vizier. She succeeded 
in getting work in a day or two, and a little ready money 
she had made the place look a little more comfortable. We 
could not afford a carpet, but then we had a rocking chair, 
and six common ones, a new bedstead, and a cooking. stove. 
Mr. Groan said that we were getting on too fast ; he didn’t 
want to jump into Beacon Street life all at once ; we had better 
grow fashionable by degrees. This was said when his siste-r, 
Mrs. M’Grath, bought a second-hand bureau with a swinging 
glass attached to it. 

I carried a note from my priest to lawyer Black. He was 
quite a young man, and he spoke to me very kindly. So, 
you are my new boy. Well, how old are you ? 

I told him. Well, said he, I hope we shall agree. I 
expect that you will open the office every morning at seven, 
and sweep it, after lighting the fire. Then you will have 
little or nothing else to do for the rest of the day. So be 
punctual, and make a good use of the spare time you will 
have. If you do your duty well, you will not be sorry for 
having been my office boy. You can have Wednesday and 
Saturday afternoons to yourself, besides a play day now and 
then. You will go to dinner at one, and I give you an hour 
for it. Then you will close the office at seven. Now you 
know your work. You may begin it immediately ; the office 
needs sweeping, and you can attend to it while Tam gone. 

I did 'SO, and then I ran to the bookcase, and began to 
examine its contents. I saw in a few moments that the 
greater part of it was beyond my depth ; but I had deter- 
mined to be a lawyer, after what the priest had told me, and 
so I took some of the old folios, and looked very knowingly 


124 


at their title pages, as if I meant they should understand that 
I did not intend to be ignorant of their contents much longer. 
The smaller books, on the three upper shelves, made me quite 
beside myself with joy, as I reflected that I would be shut up 
with them a great many days. Then I took Middleton’s Life 
of Cicero, and after looking about the offlce, to see if every 
thing was in order, I sat down and began to read. I had 
heard and read about Cicero a great many times, in a casual 
way, and now I wanted to know who he was. I was busily 
occupied when Mr. Black returned. 

Ah ! at work already } he exclaimed. What is it } Wa- 
verley. I’ll be bound. Cicero! he continued. Cicero I is it 
Well, you have made a good beginning. You have ^one to 
the fountain head of law. ' 

Didn’t I feel hig ? I was nothing less than half a lawyer 
already, in my own estimation. 

Now, my boy, you must study ^ as well as read. From 
ten trll twelve in the morning, and from three till five in 
the afternoon, you must keep at your school-books. You 
will spend one hour of this time in writing, and sometimes it 
will be in copying something for me, — that is, if you write 
well enough. Give me a specimen of your penmanship 
Sit down there, and take the pen, — there is paper. Now 
write — Great lawyers were once little boys. Bring it here. 
Pretty well, pretty well, but quite too stiff. One hour a day, 
then, from ten till eleven. How is your arithmetic .? 

can’t do a sum in long division, said I. I hate arithmetic. 

Well, you must learn to like it. Begin Colburn’s book ; — 
there it is, on the shelf. Mark out every sum in it ; and 
when you meet a difficulty, don’t skip it, but try hard ; no 
matter if you spend a week on one sum. If you cannot 
master it, I may help you. P'rom eleven to twelve, then, 
arithmetic. How is your grammar.? 

I know it as far as syntax. 

Parse this sentence — I will be a lawyer. 

I did so. 

Very well. You will begin syntax, and commit every 
word to memory. Grammar hour, from three to four. 
Now for geography. 

I know it pretty well, sir. He asked me some questions, 
and then he said that I might begin at the second part of Malte- 
Brun, and study it. Hour, from four to five. Now, said he, 
I may have something for you to do very often, during these 


125 


four hours. What time you spend in my service is taken 
from your study, of course. For instance, I send you away 
at ten, and you come back at a quarter of eleven. That is 
the hour for writing. Then you will sit dcwn, and write 
fifteen minutes, and when it strikes eleven, "you will turn to 
your arithmetic. On Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, 
you need not study unless you wish. So what you would 
have studied on Wednesday afternoon, you will study on 
Saturday morning. When you get through these elementary 
branches, I will put you to something else. The spare time 
you have may be taken up with reading. 

May I take these books home in the evening, one at a time 
sir ? 

You can ask me each time, and I will decide according to 
circumstances. Now you can go to dinner. 

The next Sunday I went to church and to catechism. 
The good priest examined me, and finding that I really knew 
my Catechism, he .gave me a class of little boys who were 
learning their prayers. I continued to spend my Sundays in 
this manner while I remained in the city. In the evening, I 
went to Deacon Mills. 

Ah, John, said he, I am glad to see you. I have got a 
good place for you now, and it has been waiting for you a 
week. You are a lucky boy. 

Sir, I am obliged to you, for you are always good to 
me. But I have got an excellent place, the best I ever had. 
And I told him all that had happened after he visited the sick 
people, that morning. Mr. Groan told me to say that he is 
very much obliged to you for that wood. It came just at the 
right time, when there was not a stick in the house. He 
hopes that God will reward you for it, sir. 

0, that is nothing. You have a good situation in Mr. 
Black’s office. But where do you live ? I told him. Is not 
Mr. Groan a Roman Catholic ? he asked. 

Yes, sir, he is a very good one. And I go to church and 
to catechism every Sunday now. I teach a class, too. I’m 
happier than I have been for a great while. 

The deacon looked very grave. Well, John, you must 
make the best of your opportunities. I have always hoped 
and prayed that you would become a useful member of 
society, and I trust that you will realize my hopes. I must 
confess that I have been annoyed at your frequent changes. 
No boy I ever had under my eye seemed so uneasy as you 
11 * 


126 


have been. Well, let us see how you will like this new 
place. Be sure, now, and visit me often. * 

I kept my post about a year. A sad accident made me 
lose it, and with it, my self-respect, and very nearly my 
soul. 

You know that I was not brought up by my father as a Catho- 
lic child ought to have been. The ten months I was at Mr. 
Riley’s house were more valuable, because I went to church 
regularly. In the country, I could not go, of course. There 
was no mass celebrated nearer than Boston, and so a year 
passed on. If I had been made for a farmer, years might 
have gone by, and changed the Catholic boy into a Protes- 
tant man. This was the idea of my friend. Deacon Mills. 
But God took me from this dangerous situation, and brought 
me back into the city. Then a year passed under the influ- 
ence of stern haters of the Catholic name. I must go to their 
heretical assemblies, whether I would or would not. Cer- 
tainly I liked their meeting better than our church, as a 
general thing ; that is, my pride and vanity told me that I 
was in the company of ladies and gentlemen ; and often, in 
coming out of Dr. Channing’s meeting, I would look at the 
Irish people, men, women, and children, returning from 
church ; and as I heard well-dressed heretics sneering at 
the priest-ridden Paddies, I felt ashamed of my father’s 
brethren in faith and in country. If I could have quieted my 
conscience, which told me that I would be damned eternally 
if I did not obey the commandments of the Church, I would 
have gone to their meetings always. As it was, my con- 
science only troubled me at intervals ; the greater part of 
the time I was stupidly content. Sunday after Sunday 
passed, and I no more thought of the church, than if it did 
not exist. But a very trifling circumstance sufficed to disturb 
this baneful slumber; and hence I w’as occasionally very 
anxious to go to my own church, and very glad when the 
time came that I could go, without hinderance from any one. 
I was glad, because I no longer feared to meet a person, see 
an object, or hear a word that would make me miserable, by 
reminding me of neglected duty. And such an awakening 
might occur any day, any hour, although, in point of fact, 
weeks would pass, and I would hear or see nothing to trou- 
ble me. 

Now, I don’t pretend to say how far I was guilty, during 
that year, in being so submissive to my Protestant superiors 


127 


m the matter of religion. It is certain enough that there was 
sin, because I knew my duty. I could have done it, and I 
did not. I might have done one thing. I could say to my 
master firmly, but respectfully, that I would not go to any 
other than the Catholic church, and then have run the risk 
of being turned out of the house. I am persuaded that in 
most cases, the bare manifestation of such a settled determi- 
nation would be enough. There are some Protestants who 
would discharge a child forthwith on that one account ; but I 
believe that such bigots are not very numerous. A variety of 
considerations would restrain many who would really like to 
do it. But I think that if a child were to show that he really 
had this courage, he would not often be required to test it. 
Now, I did no such thing. It is true, that when I entered 
each place, I pleaded, and strongly pleaded, for leave to go to 
my church ; but I only pleaded, and a stern refusal made 
me dumb. But the words, I wish, are ^ery different from 
the others, I will. The road to hell is alive with very pious 
wishes. So there I was all that time in a very bad state. I 
knew that I could not be saved in it, yet I did not make one 
vigorous effort to be free. I was deprived of arms with 
which my father ought to have furnished me. I should have 
been many times to confession, I should have made my first 
communion, and I should have been confirmed. The train- 
ing I had at home made me capable of receiving these 
sacraments, and the trials I underwent among Protestants 
made the graces which flow from their proper reception very 
necessary to me. I wanted that sacrament from whose recep- 
tion we receive graces that make us terrible to devils. I 
wanted that sacrament which makes us strong and perfect 
Christians, and soldiers of Jesus Christ. Precisely so. At a 
veiy early age, I was placed in the position of a soldier, and, 
at the same time, unprovided with the chief ordinary weapons 
of defence. It is true that there was prayer always possible. 
But the Christian soldier very often fights by praying. One 
of the effects of confirmation is to arouse and nerve us to 
pray when we are in danger. The breezes which bear to us 
the grace of prayer, blow from different quarters of heaven, 
and are of diferent kinds in consequence. 

Whatever my sin might have been in thus tamely submit- 
ting to allow men to make me renounce my baptismal vows, 
it certainly was not so great as it would have been if I had 
done it of my own accord, without any pressure from without. 


128 


How far I might be excused, I cannot say, — I leave that 
question to the decision of others. I can only observe, that 
God was very merciful to me, a sinner. The precepts of my 
father were, in most cases, observed. I shunned bad com- 
pany — which is the occasion of much sin — almost as scru- 
pulously as when he was living. I did not swear at all. 
As to lying, and stealing bread and butter, or such things, I 
suppose that 1 was like most boys of average characters. 
But my habits of heedlessness became almost confirmed. 
My father had been very vigilant in this matter, but he did 
not live long enough to root the evil out. It grew, and cost 
me much trouble, and it cost my masters some money, and 
a great deal of ill humor. My fhther dealt with other things 
as he did with my way of managing my hands. I was a left- 
handed boy. He labored so incessantly, that he cured this 
defect in a great measure. I never use my left hand for my 
right one, but I caif do so in many things, if I choose. Some- 
times, when I want to know which is my right hand, I catch 
myself cooking a syllogism, to make sure of it. But this is 
only when I am in a fit of abstraction. 

My father severely punished any display of impudence to 
my elders. But during these years, I became so saucy that 
1 know I was sometimes unbearable. I have given speci- 
mens of this thing already. 

But here was pretty nearly the extent of my evil deeds. 
The mercy of God supplied defects caused by the want of 
sacraments which I ought to have received, perhaps because 
I placed no obstacle in the way of their reception. 

But when I entered the office of lawyer Black, it was a 
very different matter. I was permitted to go where duty 
called me. I lived with Catholics, and the sacraments which 
I had so sorely needed, but which had been denied to me, 
were now within my reach ; and I did not receive them. 

Whitsunday was very near when I entered the school. 
As I knew my Catechism, the good priest offered to prepare 
me for confirmation that year, although he was very busy. 
But I told him that it was too near ; I would have to make a 
great many confessions first, and I would prefer to wait until 
the next opportunity. The next opportunity came, but I 
could not profit by it. 

Now, this was not because I did not want to receive con- 
firmation and communion. No ; but I was full of my old 
feelings about confession. I would resolve to go, and fix a 


129 


day. When it came, I would lose courage, and suffei any 
excuse to hinder me. I knew that my fears were foolish 
and groundless ; but, like the fear of ghosts, no reasoning 
would dispel the qualms when the time of trial came. In 
this matter, as in some others, I was a Catholic, so far as the 
understanding went, but I was a Protestant in feeling. And 
so time passed on. 

I fell into bad company. It is true I did not become what 
is called a street boy. I never was one. I did not fight, 
gamble, go to the theatre, or to other bad places. I did not 
blaspheme or steal, neither did I keep late hours. But I 
began to like the company of those who did most of these 
things. I look upon this growing taste for bad companions, 
and the punishment that ensued, as the proper result of my 
negligence respecting the sacraments during this year, when 
they were offered to me for the first time. It is true that I 
did not know their value so well as I do now, but I knew that 
I ought to prize them. 

My chosen companions were three or four office boys, like 
myself. It was not long before I found that they were not 
fit associates for me. Up to this moment, I had been very 
distant to all boys ; in fact, I could scarcely be said to 
have ever had companions. My father’s strict discipline 
allowed me little company, and my retired and studious hab- 
its completed his work ; so that I obeyed my masters and 
mistresses without reluctance, when they forbade me to asso- 
ciate with any one. These boys, at first, wanted me for a 
butt, for a laughing-stock, because I was so very green. 
But I found that two of them were very smart fellows, who 
had read a great deal more than I had, and one of them had 
been to Italy with his father, who was captain of a vessel. 
These two were inseparable companions ; but the captain’s 
son was thd best natured, and he used often to tell sto- 
ries about what he had seen in other countries. So I first 
endured their acquaintance, and soon I liked it. They used 
to play a great many jokes upon me, but they were so full 
of good humor afterwards, that I always forgot it. One 
evening, a little before dark, after we had closed the offices, 
they seized me by either shoulder, and dragged me towards 
the wharves, telling me that they were going to sell me to a 
captain of a Greek vessel that was just going to sail. I be- 
lieved them ; so I struggled, screamed, and implored help, 
all the way to the wharf. Some gentlemen stopped them, 


130 


but the rascals said that I had run away from my uncle, who 
had sent them after me, and that I was a great rogue. The 
next day, I would not' speak to them ; but they asked me to 
excuse tliem, and the captain’s son told me a story that made 
me laugh in spite of myself. They tried to get me to go to 
the theatre, but I never would. I did not like the place. 
From what my father told me, I concluded that it was a haunt 
of the meanest of mankind. I had been in it once. Mr. Black 
told me, one day, to go to his house, take some music I 
would find on the table in the entry, and carry it to Ostinelli, 
at the Tremont theatre. I went, and saw a bass trombone, 
with a pile of paper lying beside it. Of course I took the 
trombone, for it was all the music I saw. I had some diffi- 
culty in finding the entrance to the theatre, and I was told to 
go to the bar-room of the hotel in School Street. I entered, 
and stood there a little while, without saying anything. 
There were a great many people there, drinking and talking. 
I thought that half a barrel of liquor was swallowed during 
the few minutes I stood there. Some boys came down from 
the theatre with bottles, or pitchers, to *be filled with gin or 
with brandy. They mentioned the names of the persons who 
sent them, and almost all of them were women. I began to 
think that I had got into one of the ante-chambers of hell, and 
I suppose it was. Presently I heard some one say. There 
goes Ostinelli. I looked, and a fat man, with a very bald 
head, was passing through the door towards the theatre. I 
followed him, and the door-keeper, seeing the trombone in 
my hand, let me pass without saying any thing. When I got 
inside, Mr. Ostinelli was very busy, and there were a great 
many sickly-looking men and w’omen standing together on a 
high platform, talking all together. There were a great 
many seats around the hall, and there were some of the worst 
and roughest pictures I ever saw. The whole house, and the 
people in it, looked very dismal. I went near to Mr. Osti- 
nelli, and I heard him complaining, to a man who stood 
near him, of Mr. Black, who had promised to send him music, 
and had not kept his word. 

Here it is ! said I, showing the trombone. 

He turned and looked at it. What do you say to me ? 

Mr. Black told me to bring this music to you. 

My child, he is laughing at me. That is not music ; that is 
one instrument. I want music, like this. And he pointed to 
a pile of paper lying before him. 


131 


There was a lot of paper on the table, said I, but I did not 
know that paper made music. Shall I bring it ? 

Yes, go, my boy, quick. 

I was not long in exchanging the trombone for the manu- 
scripts, though why they were called music puzzled me a 
great deal. 

One Sunday evening, when I was at Deacon Mills’s house, 
he warned me about my companions. He said that they 
were bad fellows, and no good would come to me by keeping 
their company. He said a great deal about it, and I promised 
him that I would try to avoid them. He repeated his caution 
several times about these very boys, and I wondered how he 
knew that I went with them, but I dared not ask him. 

They tried frequently to make me stay from church on 
Sundays, and go with them nights ; but this I never would 
do. I used to walk with them on Sunday afternoons, and on 
week days all the time I could spare from the office. I would 
be with some one of them always, going to and from meals. 
Often they used blasphemous and vulgar language ; but 1 
became so used to hearing it, that it no longer gave me pain. 
Why 1 did not swear as badly as they did, I cannot tell, unless 
the reason I gave you in the second chapter is the right one. 
They asked me three or four times to go on stealing expedi- 
tions with them, and the last time, I called them a pack of 
thieves, and I said that I would never have any thing to do 
with them again. I said so much, that they were very angry ; 
and one of them swore that he would put me where I would have 
none but thieves for companions. I laughed at him, and went 
away. I did not take any notice of any of them for almost a 
fortnight. It would have been well for me if I had never 
spoken to one of them again. 

One day they came to me looking very good naturedly, 
and one of them made me a present of a book, while the 
other had a funny story to tell. They said that they were 
only joking when they wanted me to go with them, and steal. 
1 had forgotten the offence ; in fact, I never could hold any 
spite for a day against my worst enemy. I had not learned 
that there is quite a difference between forgiving an injury, 
and putting it into one’s power to hurt you a second time. 
We went towards the Common : it was the afternoon of 
Wednesday, and I neglected my class for the sake of pleasing 
them. The book was full of tales, and I read one while lying 
on the grass. The captain’s son then told several stories, 


132 


and the other boy and I also told some. It was near sunset, 
and we went home. At night, when 1 was undressing, I 
felt something hard in my coat pocket ; but as I generally had 
a book or two in it, I thought no more about it. The next 
morning I slept late, and so I put on my clothes in a hurry. 
As I took up my coat, something dropped from the pocket. 

I picked it up, and it was a very neat little box, covered with 
velvet. It seemed to shut with a kind of spring ; but I could 
see no way of opening it, and I had no time for further ex- 
amination. I put it back into my pocket, and hurried to the 
office, wondering all the way what was in the box, and how 
I came by it. I was puzzled, for I could not think of any 
errand that I had forgotten. Foul play never entered my 
mind. I made the fire, swept the room, and as it was now 
eight o’clock, I expected Mr. Black, for he was very punc- 
tual. The door opened, but it was not my master ; it was 
Deacon Mills. 

John, said he, very seriously, and without shaking hands 
with me, as he always did, put on your coat, and come with 
me ! 

Can you wait until Mr. Black comes. He will be hero 
soon. . 

' No matter for that, but come with me. I think it likely 
that we shall have to get a new place for you. 

I was sorry to hear this. Deacon Mills, said I, I am con- 
tented and happy in this place. I don’t want to leave it. 
Didn’t you scold me for changing places so often ? 

We will talk about that hereafter. I think that you will 
not change your next place for some time. Come with me. 
And he wrote something upon a slip of paper, and stuck it 
on the outside of the door. Then he told me to put the key. 
in its usual corner. As we went out, he asked me if I had 
been at breakfast. I told him I had not. 

Well, little boys must eat, at all events. And he took me 
into an eating-house, and told the man to bring some bread 
and butter, and coffee. I was a little frightened, and more 
astonished. However, I ate a good meal. The deacon paid 
for it, and told me to follow. He led the way to the Court 
House, and went into a room. We found there two men and 
two boys. One of the men I did not know, but I afterwards 
found that he was a constable. The other man was a lawyer, 
whose office was in the same building with that of Mr. Black. 
I had been sent to his house two days before on an errand ; 


183 


so I knew where he lived. The two boys were my com- 
panions of yesterday. One of them lived in the house of the 
same lawyer, Mr. Hodge, and took care of his office besides. 
They all looked strangely at me, and I began to feel quite 
alarmed. 

The constable came to me, and, without saying a word, he 
put his hand in my pockets, and presently he pulled out the 
little box. The other man took it, and pressed a spring, when 
it flew open, and I saw that it was full of stones, set in gold. 
He looked at each stone, and then he spoke to Deacon Mills. 

The scamp l\asn’t touched them. They are all here. 

John, said the deacon, I am very sorry for this. I did not 
believe that you could be guilty of such an act. 

What have I done, sir ^ said I, while my heart was rising — 
rising, till it seemed as if it were just going to jump out of 
my throat. 

You are accused of having stolen this box. 

I never stole it, sir. 

How did you come by it then ? 

I don’t know, sir. Yesterday afternoon I was on the Com- 
mon with these boys, and when I went to bed, I noticed some- 
thing hard in my pocket. I didn’t look at it ; and in the 
morning, when I was putting on my coat, that box fell on the 
floor. I was in a hurry, it was late, and I put it back, mean- 
ing to tell Mr. Groan about it, when I went to breakfast. That 
is all I know about it, sir. 

Don’t you know whose box it is ? 

No, sir. 

What a finished liar ! said the lawyer. 

Now, John, said the deacon, listen to me. You were at 
Mr. Hodge’s house, the day before yesterday. Mrs. Hodge, 
her maid, and this boy here, can prove that. You waited 
alone in a room for a letter more than twenty minutes. This 
boy was about the house all the time, and he says that you 
did not leave the room. Mrs. Hodge says that the box was 
in one of the drawers in that room in the morning, and in 
the afternoon, the box was gone. These two boys say that 
they were with you on the Common yesterday afternoon ; you 
were rolling on the grass, and they saw a velvet box, or 
something that looked like one, in your pocket. Now, I have 
brought you here, and we find the very box that was lost 
about your person. Are we to blame, then, for saying that 
12 


134 


you took it ? You had better confess the truth at once, and 
perhaps you will get off more easily. 

I have told the truth about it, said I. You may hang me, 
if you like, but I won’t tell any other story, because I can’t. 

Well, the thing must take its course. I met my friend and 
neighbor, Mr. Hodge, this morning, and he told me the story, 
which shocked me very much. He would'have you punished 
severely, but I persuaded him to let me manage the matter. 
You will certainly be convicted, but I will save you the dis- 
graceful part of the punishment, at all events. You may 
thank Mr. Hodge, who permits me to do .thus much for 
you. 

I was quite stupefied by this time, and I never had any dis- 
tinct recollection of what followed ; it all seemed like a night- 
mare. I dreamed that some one came in and spoke to the 
deacon, when we walked into a room full of people, and 
there was a white-haired man sitting at a bench, and a very 
red-faced man sitting at another. Something w'as said. I 
was asked some questions, I believe-, but whether I spoke at 
all, or what I answered, I cannot tell. I believe the white- 
haired man said something about a poor boy, intelligent looks ; 
and the deacon something else about wild boy, five places in 
one year, impudent, street acquaintances, and so on, whatever 
it was. I found myself riding in a coach. How I got in or 
out of it I don’t know. I dreamed of a very high fence, a 
large house with two wings, and a tall man with a very long 
nose. When I came to myself, I was in a pretty large room 
with a window and a bed, and I was alone. I sprang to the 
door, but it was locked ; and I threw myself on the bed, and 
prayed that I might die. A hearty fit of weeping came to 
relieve me, and I sobbed myself to sleep. 

I was awakened by a boy who brought to me a piece of bread, 
a plate of meat, and some water. 1 drank the -water eagerly, 
and I asked for some more. He took the mug without saying 
any thing, and went out. He presently reappeared with more 
water. I drank it all, and told him to take away the dinner, 
1 did not want any. Then I asked his name, and what place 
it was } He looked at me as if he wanted to say something, 
but he went away without speaking, and locked the door. 

Presently I heard voices in the open air. I went to the 
window, and found I was in a room two stories from the 
ground. There was a fine piece of land in front of the house, 
with a great many trees, and men were ploughing the ground 


135 


and hoeing it. Directly under the window there was & long 
grass plot, and three rather large boys were there playing. 
They were dressed in blue jackets and pantaloons, like the one 
that broughnny dinner. As I opened the window, they looked up. 

Give me that handkerchief of yours, said one of them tome.- 
You will have no use for it. 

I dropped it, and he thanked me, as he put it into his pocket. 

You’ll get into a scrape for that, remarked one of the others. 
Come away. 

Stop, said I. I’ve given you my handkerchief, and I had as 
lief give you my head, as not. I’m afraid I shall have no 
further use for it. But tell me one thing. What is the name 
of this place ? 

The boys laughed, and walked away. Thinks I to myself. 
What is the matter, that I can’t get any body to speak to me ? 
It must be an enchanted castle. What a great fool I was to 
give him my handkerchief ! It is the only one I have ; and 
now, what will I do ? 

It is a fact ! I’m half inclined to believe Professor Grimes, 
— not the good old soul who is dead, — when he prates in 
the latest humbug, 'called Etherology, about a new organ 
which he has just discovered, and which he calls the bump of 
Credenciveness. He says that all the systems about animal 
magnetism, pathetism, electro*biology, neurology, and so forth, 
are humbugs, excepting his own. He tells just half the truth. 
Well, he says that the new bump is at the bottom of all 
these curious and ticklish facts in the aforesaid humbug 
sciences. It explains all the wonderful things that have addled 
people’s heads so here in Boston and else where. This cre- 
denciveness is only the bump of believing an assertion. If 
you can only get this bump a little tickled, you can say that 
black is white, that the moon is made of green cheese, or that 
magnetism isn’j; a humbug, or any other absurdity, and the 
patient will believe you. That is the whole secret, says good 
Grimes. Bless you, the devil hasn’t any thing to do with 
magnetism at all. Fiske, and Sunderland, and all the others 
only magnetize the money out of your pockets, by making a 
great mystery of it. They offer to teach you for ten dollars 
what I’m telling you for nothing, or next to nothing. They 
work all their miracles by practising on the bump of creden- 
civeness that I’ve lately discovered in the brains of mankind 
in general, and of this community in particular. All you 
have to do is, to get control of a subject, and then excite this 




136 


bump. The way to excite it is to assert something energeti- 
cally ; but it is generally found best to tell a lie, and stick to 
it like wax. You’ll find plenty of men who’ll believe you, 
without going to the trouble of magnetizing them first. Tef 
your subject that the floor is hot, and he’ll begin to dance lik« 
a bear on hot irons. Tell him it’s cold, and he’ll try to stea' 
your cloak. You’ll get ’em to believe anything, and do an} 
thing you tell ’em to. Now, my hearers, I’ve excited youi 
several bumps. The box is going round ; and I assert thal 
every individual here will put in twenty-five cents. 

I think that my bump of credenciveness was pretty large 
when I was a boy. It was always very hard for me to say 
no to any one. So I was always inclined to obey any person 
who chose to assume with me a tone of absolute command. 
I have given several instances of this weakness, in the course 
of my story. And I always put great faith in other people. 
The lesson of distrust was the last I ever learned, and a great 
many experiments were necessary before I could begin to 
learn it. I hate to practise it now. I can’t understand the 
state of that man’s mind, who takes it for granted that every 
body else is a scoundrel, and isn’t quite sure that he himself 
. is an honest man. I do not want to be more distrustful than 
the. law is, which supposes every man innocent until he is 
proved guilty. I always liked to believe in other people. 
Even when I heard or read a story, I did not like to think it 
unreal. But the bump was never so excited in me as on this 
day, when, I didn’t know where I was, or what they were 
going to do with me. If a dog, with two tails, dressed in 
the uniform of a Chinese mandarin, had waddled in, and told 
me that I was in the moon, I would have asked him if he 
were the man in it, and I would have told him that I was not 
very partial to green cheese. But no dog came, either with 
two tails, or with one. 

A little before sunset, a rather large boy opened the door, 
and told me to follow him. I did, of course. I would no 
^ more have dreamed of disputing his command, or of asking 
to see his papers, than I would if he had been a giant, fifty 
feet long. He led the way down a wide flight of stairs, and 
into a large room, where there were nearly a hundred 'boys. 
There was a great buzzing in the room, for the boys were 
talking together in an under tone. I was led to a row of boys, 
and seated at the foot, in the lowest place. I sat, and looked 
around the room. 


137 


The long nose I had dreamed about in the morning be- 
longed to the Rev. Mr. Willis, the manager of the establish- 
ment. He sat at a high desk, reading. Two men occupied 
lower desks, at either side. One of them looked as if he had 
just left the plough ; his name was Marcy. The other had 
a fox-hunting look about him ; he was quite a young English 
squire. He answered to the name of Nellis. The boys were 
sitting on benches arranged against the walls of the room, 
leaving the middle free. There were enough to fill three 
sides, leaving not much space between the classes, or divis- 
ions. There were six of these, but they did not appear to 
be made with any reference to size or age, for great and 
small boys were to be seen in all of them. The division 
nearest the master was the smallest, and the boys were 
dressed in good blue clothes. The third was the largest ; it 
included nearly half the boys. The two last were farther re- 
moved from the others than they were from one another. 
And while the boys in the four higher divisions talked or 
read, they of the two last sat in silence, with folded arms. 
Two monitors sat on stools in front, to watch them. My di- 
vision was the smallest ; it contained only four, and one of 
them was the boy to whom I gave my handkerchief. He 
looked very sulky, and he had lost his blue suit. I was be- 
ginning to speak to him, but the boy who was our monitor, 
told me to be still, and fold my arms. The dress of all the 
boys, excepting those of the first division, was a jacket and 
pantaloons of a light and coarse blue. The jackets had 
standing collars, and were buttoned with one row of buttons, 
like military jackets. The boys seemed to be warm enough. 

These divisions, as I learned soon enough, were called 
grades. The three higher ones were called bon^ or good 
grades. The three lower ones, maZ, or bad grades. A boy 
newly arrived, or one who had done a very bad action, was 
put in the third malgrade. Then he worked his way up by 
good behavior. Three days would pass him into the second 
malgrade ; a week into the first ; then another week for 
the third bongrade. A fortnight would qualify him for the 
second. A month would bring him into the highest, and into 
a better suit of clothes. So nine weeks would enable a boy to 
pass from the lowest grade to the highest ; and when he was 
once there, he might keep his post as long as he remained in 
the house. It was quite an object to get into this grade ; for, 
m the first place, the boys in it were better dressed ; then 


138 


they were the favorites — the white-headed boys. They 
enjoyed a peculiar privilege, by a fiction of the domestic law. 
They were supposed to be incapable of lying, and their word 
was sufficient in any transaction. This was a wise notion. 
The boys were very proud of the distinction, and made it a 
point of honor to tell the truth. Few were ever caught in a 
lie. Then the cabinet ministers were selected from among 
them. There was the head monitor, who governed the com- 
munity in the absence of the superintendent and of his two 
deputies. There was the monitor of the keys, who could unlock 
any door in the house, as he had the charge of the great 
bunch. There was the monitor of police, who went over the 
house daily, with two assistants, to see that it was clean. His 
two boys did the work, when any was to be done ; and there 
was a little always. There was the monitor of the wardrobe, 
who dispensed clean clothes. And there was the parlor boy, 
whose post was always an enviable one, because he dined up 
stairs. Then there were the two monitors, of the grades, who 
watched over the boys in the two unfortunate lower divisions. 
These monitors were changed or reappointed every two months. 

The first bongrade had another privilege. They could go 
to the city alone, to see their friends. They were expected 
not to ask for this indulgence often, though. Some never 
availed themselves of the privilege, for fear of meeting old 
acquaintances, I suppose. No one claimed it oftener than once 
in three or four months. The boys of this grade had several 
other little rights. One of them implied frequent exemption 
from work. When the garden was to be attended to, or any 
thing was done which required the boys to be divided into squads, 
one of the first grade was made temporary captain of the gang. 

All this had a good effect, and it was as strong an incite- 
ment to good behavior as the managers could invent. Pro- 
motion never happened unless the outward actions were good ; 
and the higher the grade, the more strictly were the boys 
watched. A word spoken, in time of silence, would put one 
back a week. 

I called the two lowest grades unfortunate, because they 
were not considered as belonging to the community. They 
always sat by themselves. When work was to be done, the 
worst portions fell to their share. They had only a little cor- 
ner of the play-ground, where it was impossible to get up any 
games. They could talk among themselves, at certain times ; 
but it was strictly forbidden to the boys of the four upper 


139 


grades to exchange a word with them. The slightest trans- 
gression of this rule was visited with severe punishment ; the 
speaker was sent down to the grade of the boy spoken to. 
'I his was the offence of the boy who asked me for my hand- 
kerchief. Now, I, being a new comer, belonged to the third 
malgrade, and he had to take off his good clothes, and come 
down to the same depth. It was a great fall, for he was in 
the highest grade, and had a seat in the cabinet ; he was moni- 
tor of the keys. 

While I was sitting there, staring at the boys, the bell rang, 
and Mr. Willis called the names of the boys in alphabetical 
order. He paused after each name, and if neither deputy 
said any thing, he put a good mark against it. If a slight ob- 
jection were made, he omitted the mark. If the’ boy had 
done any thing really against the rules, a bad mark was put 
against the name. This ceremony was repeated every night. 
Every Saturday afternoon, the results were summed up, and 
promotions and degradations were made, according to the 
excess of good or of bad marks. Some boys had as many 
as two hundred good ones; some, none at all. Some had a 
few bad ones. There were not many of these, because no 
boy was censured every day, and so he blotted out his bad 
marks with good ones. No good marks, and a certain num- 
ber of bad ones, degraded a boy ; the number required cor- 
responded to the nobility of his grade. On the whole, incen- 
tives for good conduct were prettily devised. 

When the roll had been called, the deputies made their 
reports for the day just ended. Boys who had behaved badly 
were called out, questioned, witnesses were examined, if 
necessary, and punishment followed. This was whipping, 
and major excommunication in a few cases, degradation often, 
and sometimes the loss of part of the next meal. It might 
be to stand in the middle of the floor, the next day, during 
recreation hours, with the hands held in some wearisome po- 
sition. Sometimes it was work in play hours. This court 
held its sessions, and pronounced judgment, every evening, 
after the calling of the roll. 

Then came the order — Take your places by divisions. 
We of the unfortunate grades sat still, but the floor was cov- 
ered by the other boys, who scattered in every direction. In 
a minute they were again seated, but according to their size. 
The smallest boys were about eight years old, I should say. 
Some of the largest seemed to be more than eighteen. But 


140 


tho general age of the boys was from eleven to fourteen. 
Then there was a little time for talking. Presently the bell 
rang once more. 

Attention ! Rise ! To the right, face ! Close your files, 
march ! Monitors, to your posts, march ! Divisions, close 
your files, march ! Quick time — one, two, three, forward, 
march ! Away we went, single file, into the eating-room. 

Every time we marched this way, — and it was several times 
each day, — the step was marked ; sometimes by singing a 
hymn, now and then a song. A favorite time-marker was 
the foil of English kings, beginning with William, and end- 
ing with George IV., then reigning. We recited many other 
things in marching — the forty chemical elements, (there 
were forty, then, and light and caloric were counted as two ;) 
the points of the compass, with all their subdivisions ; the 
names of the orders and genera of plants, according to Lin- 
naeus ; and a great many other useful things. 

The supper was bread and shells, and so it was always, un- 
less on holidays, when hutter was added. After supper, we 
were marched back to the assembly room, and after a little 
reading of the Bible and prayer, we were marched to bed 
at an early hour. As soon as I reached my room, and the doors 
were locked, my two companions began to catechize me. But 
I told them that I would not answer a question until they told 
me where I was. 

O, that’s easily said. You are where you won’t get out 
in a hurry. 

But what is the name of the place ? 

The House of Reformation. 

I then asked the names of the three masters, what kind 
of men they were, and so on. They told me all about them, 
and then they gave me their own histories. 

And now, said they, who are you .? What’s your name, 
and what brought you here 

I satisfied them on these points, and then I went to bed, for 
some one had been at the door twice, and told us to be quiet. 
1 was very tired ; so I resisted all their invitations to have a 
long talk, and I went to sleep while they were talking, like 
hardened little sinners, as one of them was. 

The rule of the bed-rooms was silence ; but it was never 
kept, because it was very seldom enforced. Indeed, it was 
impossible to enforce it, under the circumstances. There 
were, along one of the great wings, two stories of bed-rooms, 


141 


and there were on each floor two rows of rooms, a row on 
either side of a long corridor. The rooms were all quite 
large, and well Ventilated. There was a window in each, and 
above every door an empty space, which served to admit air, 
and to enable a listener to know what might be going on in 
the rooms. There were two monitors, one to each story. He 
locked the doors at night, and opened them in the morning. 
His room was left open, of course. There were always two, 
generally three, and sometimes four boys in each room. 
Room mates were commonly selected with reference to age 
and to size. The monitor would generally be asleep fifteen 
minutes after locking the rooms. I know that I was often 
asleep in less than five. Of course, whispering, or conversa- 
tion in an under tone, would not attract his attention, and often 
downright rioting would fail to do it. He could go to the 
room whence it proceeded, and turn the inmates out into the 
corridor, to cool, in their shirts. His duty was, furthermore, 
to report them the next morning ; but, as he himself was one 
of the boys, he seldom did it. It would have been better 
if he had only been permitted to report them, precisely be- 
cause he was a boy, and consequently used his authority in 
such a way that three or four lads, turned out of bed in their 
shirts, would sometimes get a little too much of the cold night 
air. Sometimes he would creep into bed, intending to go out 
and send them back in five minutes or so, and he would fall 
soundly asleep over his good resolution. Then the boys, 
after they had ascertained that he really slept, would unlock 
every door, and raise what’s his name for an hour or two ; 
and sometimes the fun would be so uproarious, that the moni- 
tor would wake, and find that a general jail delivery had 
taken place. He was lucky if it were not first discovered by 
the officers, as it was once or twice. 

Now, just look at it. There were a hundred boys together 
in an institution which professed to be, not a house of correc- 
tion, but a house of reformation. It was no part of its plan 
to receive criminals, but little boys who had begun to go 
astray, and who might become criminals, if they were left to 
themselves. The idea was, to take these boys, before they 
had become very wicked, and give them two or three years 
of careful training, after which they would be reformed, and 
they might go again into the world, under the auspices of 
honest tradesmen, who would take them as apprentices. The 
house was not regarded or intended as a prison, but as a 


142 


school. This was the theory, and a very pretty theory it is, 
like a great many other philanthropic theories which are so 
current in charitable Boston. 

But the theory did not work so well in the house as it did 
on paper. It is true that the annual reports made male and 
female old ladies shed tears of joy ; it is true that the annual 
exhibitions were well got up ; it is true that visitors, who were 
admitted every month, and directors, who roamed at will 
wherever they chose, saw nothing but industry, progress, 
cheerfulness, neatness, and order. We could show handsome 
writing-books, read as if we were the .sons of directors, 
answer questions in geography and grammar, and work sums 
in arithmetic. Some of us could recite pieces, answer ques- 
tions in history, and even demonstrate such common problems 
in metaphysics as the existence of God and the immortality 
of the soul. We could sing Watts’s hymns as if we were 
little angels. In fact. Deacon Mills, who was a sort of father 
to the institution, never visited it without shedding tears of 
joy ; for the good old man really thought that it was one 
of his greatest triumphs. He would apply to it the hymn — 

I have been there, and still would go ; • 

'Tis like a little heaven below. 

So it was a heaven lelow^ where words go by contraries. 
We had wholesome food, and plenty of it. We were gener- 
ally clothed well enough to prevent suffering. We had just 
work enough to enable us to know what work was. We had 
plenty of time to play. We were provided with means for 
mental improvement. The government, with a few excep- 
tions, was tolerably good. We had prayers every day, and 
service on Sundays. In short, Protestant brains could scarcely 
work out a better plan on Protestant principles. All con- 
cerned in it were probably sincere in thinking that they had 
immortalized themselves. 

Then what was the matter } 

Why, only that the institution often received tolerably good 
boys, and sent out filthy demons ; that is all. Not always, 
to be sure ; but it was not the fault of the institution that there 
were some exceptions. It would have been a very successful 
concern — none more so — if there were no God ; or if there 
were no hell ; or if Protestant morality were really morality ; 
or, finally, if boys from eight to eighteen years of age knew 


143 


nothing of crime. Now, the greater part of these boys were 
sent there for stealing or for disobedience. Some were com- 
mitted as vagrants. There were a few who did not deserve 
to be sent there ; for, call the place all the soft names you 
choose, it was a prison, and it was a means of punishment. 
Some of those who did deserve to be sent there were not 
half so wicked as many who were petted and indulged by 
foolish parents, and have their juvenile sins hushed up. A 
little molasses stolen through straws on the wharves, or a tree 
visited and lightened of a part of its load, was the sum of 
the peccadilloes of a few of them. Of the boys who were 
committed for disobedience, it may be safely said of some 
of them, that their parents had failed in their duty to the 
children, more than the children had to their parents. I am 
confident that, in very many cases, the boys were passed 
over who ought to have been there, and the boys were sent 
there who ought to have been passed over. I am sure, more- 
over, that the boys there were no worse than the average run 
of Boston boys. If the institution could have been changed 
into a school by knocking down the high fences, and allowing 
the boys to live freely in neighboring houses, instead of mak- 
ing them live together, they would pass muster with the other 
Boston schoolboys, and no one would know the difference. 
If the boys of any one of the Boston schools were brought 
together into the house, and the boys of the house were 
transferred in a lump to that school, thus exchanging situa- 
tions, the respective masters would not know the difference ; 
they would be ignorant that they had exchanged boys, if 
they had to judge only from language, behavior, or from any 
thing that makes the hoy. They could distinguish only by 
the aid of dress, and of other accidents. The thing works 
as if a portion of the Boston boys were huddled together, 
until they reached a given number, and then sent like emis- 
sary goats, to expiate the sins of the boyish community. No 
doubt there are certain principles kept in sight in the selec- 
tion of the emissary goats. I have given the subject careful 
consideration, and I am satisfied that there are two. One 
may be stated thus : “ Hit him ; he ain’t got no friends.” The 
other : “ Popery must and shall be crushed.” 

When I express a belief that the boys were fair samples 
of Boston boys, I do not mean to have it inferred that they 
were very moral. What I said in the first part of the story 
about schoolboys will set that matter at rest. There wer® 


144 


no saints in the house, no religious boys, and I do not think 
that there were many really good ones. But there were 
several. 

With these, there were some very bad ones. There were 
boys that deserved to be sent to a House of Correction. There 
were some who would not have suffered injustice, had they 
been sent to the State Prison. And the good mixed with the 
bad, the filthy-souled with the pure-minded ; and the natural 
consequence of such things happened. What availed it that 
they were under the strictest discipline from sunrise to sun- 
set, if they herded together without any restraint from sun- 
set to sunrise. They were kept apart when they might have 
been left together, and left together when they should have 
been kept apart. The monitors slept, the officers slept, the 
master slept, but the boys were awake. And the result of 
it was, that pure-minded boys were possessed by seven devils 
within those walls. Images of God entered there, and went 
out likenesses of hell. The enemy of souls, in pausing over 
the pious city of Boston, saw no house more to his mind 
within its circuit ; for he rejoices far more over the ruin 
of a child than over that of a man, even as men love a new 
instrument better than one grown old with use. 

The next morning we were aroused by a great bell. After 
making the beds and washing ourselves, we assembled in 
the same large room,. In a short time the boys were marched 
to breakfast, which was always bread and shells. Two hours 
of school followed, and then two hours of work. In sum- 
mer, the work was gardening, and we had a pretty little 
piece of ground, just enough to make gardening a pleasant 
business. The garden ran to the shore, and the afternoon 
work generally ended in summer with a bath in the salt 
water. On wet and cold days the in-door work was miscel- 
laneous, but the principal employment was picking wool. 
Then half an hour of rest, after which we were marched to 
dinner. It was only one dish, but it was wholesome, and 
plenty of bread went with it. There was one thing which is 
very common in houses where there are Protestant employers 
and Catholic workmen. There was always meat on Fridays, 
and fish on Saturdays. It is just as easy to cook fish on 
Friday ; but no ! the superstitious Papists must eat meat, or 
they shall have nothing. 

After dinner the boys marched to a large play-ground, 
where a merry hour was always spent. In wet weather there 


145 


was a spacious gymnasium, occupying an entire story of one 
of the long wings. After play, two hours more of school, 
followed by two hours of work. Then the boys met for 
recreation in the assembly-room, as I had found them on my 
entrance, the evening before. Here is a day as it was spent 
there, and it was like all other days in the year, excepting 
Sundays and holidays. When Sunday came, we met in the 
morning and in the afternoon at chapel, which was in the house. 
The chaplain was an Episcopalian ; so the liturgy of the Church 
of England was read, of course. I knew all about it, for 
that was my meeting while I was with Dr. Stilling worth. 
There was communion service two or three times while I was 
there, and once the bishop came and confirmed several boys. 
On Christmas day, the chapel was finely decorated. I never 
heard the chaplain allude to the Catholic Church in any way. 
It was the system of Deacon Mills. We, who were Catholics, 
were to be always surrounded with Protestant influences, and 
never see or hear any thing that would remind us of our own 
Church. The thing worked pretty well ; the greater part of 
the Catholic boys quite forgot that they had ever been any 
thing but Protestants. 

So passed a year and a half. One day was always like 
another, but time was so well divided that it did not pass 
wearily. I, for one, felt tolerably content. The “ Friends 
and Fathers ” of the institution visited it annually, and that 
was always a gala day. Never was there such a nice insti- 
tution, never were there such nice boys. “ Friends and 
Fathers ” do make mistakes, sometimes. The directors vis- 
ited the house often, and then I always saw Deacon Mills. 
He looked pleased to see me there ; as, no doubt, he was. 

The most pleasant day to me was when the boys’ friends 
came to see them, which happened every month. When the 
first time came, and I saw the boys sitting with their mothers 
and relations, I felt very sorrowful, for I knew that there were 
no parents or kindred to come and speak a kind word to me. 
There were only one or two whom I cared to see ; and although 
I hoped they would not forget me, I was almost afraid they 
would come, for I was ashamed. But one did think of me ; 
it was Mr. Croan. 

John, my dear boy, what have they done to you } 

I could not speak for some time ; my heart was too big. 
At last I asked him if he believed it. . 

13 


146 


Believe it ? No ! I’d as soon believe that I did it. But - 
come, tell me the whole story. 

I did so. When I had finished, he asked how I fared in 
the place. I told him that I was treated well enough, but I 
did not want to stay. First of all, I can’t go to church, of 
course. It ’s a punishment upon me, because I neglected 
confirmation, last year. But let me have one more chance, 
and see if I’ll throw it away ! Then there are some horrid 
bad boys here ; and the good ones are growing bad every 
day. I have had enough of bad company ; it has brought me 
to this. Then I feel th^at I’m growing more and more like a 
Protestant, in spite of myself. I was alwaj^s a half heretic, 
and I’m afraid that my stay in this place will finish the busi- 
ness. I’ll tell you what, — I’ll run away. 

. He told me that it would never do ; and he said so much to 
me that I promised I would not, without consulting him. He 
staid as long as he could, and then went away, saying that 
I might expect to see him every month. I called him back 
as he was going out, and asked him if he knew any thing of 
Mary Riley, and whether she believed that I was such a bad 
boy. I had seen her in the street two or three times during 
my year at Mr. Black’s office, and she was always the same 
Mary. She bitterly lamented her uncle’s sternness in my 
regard, for he had forbidden her to have any thing to say 
to me. 

But I won’t mind him in that, you may be sure, she would 
always say. My father would never have given me such 
an order. So never mind, John : we’ll grow up, one of these 
days, and we’ll live together, — won’t we O, how I long to 
be a woman ! 

I called at her uncle’s house on business, said Mr. Groan, 
and I saw her. He had told her about it, and it seems that 
he had given you a’ bad name. She was very much grieved, 
but she said that you did not do it any more than she did ; 
she knew you didn’t. I told her that I thought as she did, and 
that pleased her much. I did not speak about her to you 
because there is something in that box that comes from her. 
She came to my house yesterday afternoon, and left it. 
Now, good-by. Remember what I have told you about your 
prayers. 

I took the box he brought for me ; it was pretty heavy, 
and I carried it down stairs. As I passed, I heard Mr. Willis 


147 


scolding two women for divesting their boys of vermin. I 
did not blame them. Many of the boys were overrun with 
these creatures, and it was hard for any one to escape. In 
that matter, there was not sufficient care taken of the boys’ 
heads. There was another disgusting malady, too, which was 
a terrible nuisance ; no one was secure against it. • It was the 
itch. Some of the boys had it badly ; half of them were 
more or less troubled with it. I did not think that the super- 
intendent chose a very good way to treat it, either. The 
remedy was brimstone and molasses, exhibited internally and 
externally. The boy had to strip before the whole communi- 
ty, and stand in the middle of the floor until he was anointed 
from head to heels. I never thought that it was a good sight 
for a hundred boys to look at. Several other scenes of this 
nature came off in the presence of the boys, and the ostensible 
occasion was not always the itch.^ I thought then that it was 
indecent, and I think so now. 

The box contained eatables, little goodies, which were al-' 
ways plentiful in the house on these occasions. Then there 
were some books. I was delighted with them ; for, although 
we had a library, yet these were my own. Then there was 
a picture ! Stars and earth, it was a picture of Mary ! 1 

thought I should go wild with joy. But I hid it, for fear that 
it would be taken from me, or that the boys would see it, and 
plague me about it. After that, I didn’t care if I were on a 
desert island. That picture has driven away many sad 
thoughts, and made sunshine for me when there seemed noth- 
ing but black clouds. For a week I thought of nothing else. 

I wore it in my bosom until I took her there to be my wife. 
There was a note fastened to the miniature. It ran thus : — 

My poor, dear Brother John : It broke my heart to hear 
what those wicked people have done to you. And then my 
uncle always calls you bad names. I’ll try to forgive him, if I 
can. The worst name I can call you is my own brother John. 

I went to communion, and I offered it up for you. The 
priest said I might. I have been confirmed, too. 

Dear John, don’t forget me. I have sent you my picture, 
so that you may not. My uncle got it for me ; not this one, 
but another that was here, from the west. And I want you 
to do another thing. Every time you look at it, think of the 
Blessed Virgin, and say a Hail Mary. You can’t think how 
much good it will do you. You will be out soon, I know. 


148 


"They cannot keep you long. Uncle will be mad about the 
picture, I suppose ; but I do not care. 

Your own sister, Mary Riley. 

Several boys ran away while I was there. In fact, it was 
not a hard matter. Ten ran away one morning together ; six 
were retaken, and three more came back of their own ac- 
cord the same night. Boys who were guilty of this offence 
were severely punished. They were first expelled from the 
community, which amounted to a sentence of greater excom- 
munication. This was necessary in order to administer a 
whipping, which was never inflicted upon boys in regular 
standing in the house. Then the culprit was confined in a 
solitary and rather dark room, for a period varying from 
three days to a month. This punishment was dreaded by all 
the boys, and with some reason. Sometimes they were con- 
fined in a very lonely part of the west wing ; and, in at least 
one instance, a boy was chained in a huge garret, at the top 
of the house, which had the name of being haunted. Such 
punishments are cruel, for a boy might lose his reason in one 
night, passed in such dismal places. 

This punishment of expulsion was rarely administered ; 
perhaps not more than twenty times in the year. It was given 
mainly for running away, as I said before. But any boy who 
was caught speaking to an expelled lad, suffered the same 
punishment. You like their society, the master would say ; 
then go and share it. No other breach of the laws of the 
house was visited with this penalty. It was only inflicted 
upon those found guilty of some great crime. 

I remember how surprised we all were once. One of the 
biggest and most intelligent boys in the house, and of good 
standing, too, was called out one evening, at muster. He was 
made to exchange his nice suit for a coarse one. Then he 
was heavily ironed, and marched off* to solitary confinement. 
He had been in the house only a year ; but Mr. Willis was 
looking over the books of his predecessor, and he found 
therein an entry, stating that the boy in question had escaped 
from the institution, five years before. 

The boys were generally discharged after two years or so, 
if they were old enough, and if they were well behaved. 
But they never received an absolute discharge. They were 
not returned to their parents, no matter how earnestly a poor 
mother might claim her boy. There may have been excep- 


149 


tions ; but if any there were, they were extremely rare, and 
made under the pressure of very peculiar circumstances. 
The “ Friends and Fathers ” were hitting him, until they 
found that he had got friends. No matter if a poor widow 
had been wheedled into a surrender of her boy, under repre- 
sentations to the effect that the house was a “ little heaven 
below,” and that she could have her child at any time. Just 
let him have a few months of the kind and healthy discipline 
of our establishment, and he will be a reformed boy. You 
can have him again ? Certainly. O, yes ! 

Well, they did have him again, but when they had better 
have had a corpse within their arms, if they were Catholic 
mothers. They did have him again, but after they had waited 
many weary years. After he had left the place to go and 
serve a master whose God was not his God. After years 
spent in learning how to get a living, and how to forget all 
that makes living in the world good for the soul. The poor 
mother sometimes was weary with watching, and would lie 
down to a long sleep. But the boy came back ; had not 
“ Friends and Fathers ” promised it The lesson had been 
taught him ; he had renounced his renunciation of the devil 
and of all his works. He had become a “ useful member of 
society.” Another brand had been snatched from the burn- 
ing. Popery had lost another slave ! 

The way in which boys left the institution was this : Per- 
sons, supposed to be honest men, would come to the house, 
and apply for boys to go with them, and learn to be farmers, 
shoemakers, carpenters, or cabinet makers, as the case might 
be. The applicant would bring a letter from the directors, 
and a boy that seemed likely to suit him was selected from 
the highest grade. Then he took him as an indented appren- 
tice. The boy would shake hands with his mates, and start 
off. Few boys were granted to applicants from the city. 
The reason assigned was, that he might fall again among bad 
companions. Another reason, no doubt, had its weight, if 
the boy were a Catholic. There was a church in the city 
and orje end of the institution might be frustrated by its means 

Then the boys were commonly sent into the country. If 
they were Catholic boys, they had probably been negligent 
about going to church and to catechism, before they were 
sent to be reformed. In the House, during the two years or 
so of their stay, they heard nothing that would lead them to 
suspect that such a thing as a Catholic Church existed. Mr. 
13 * 


150 


Willis was an admirable assistant to Deacon Mills. And 
when the boy left the house, he went to some country town, 
where he was to stay for seven years, and learn a trade. He 
must go to meeting ; he must live with people who have a 
less just notion of what the Catholic Church is, than the Chi- 
nese of the interior have about the “ outside barbarians ” of 
Europe ; and when the work is done, “ Friends and Fathers” 
keep their word, the worse than corpse is brought back and 
laid in its mother’s arms ; if, indeed, she has not gone to 
accuse them of high treason against a soul redeemed by very 
precious blood. 

What! a Protestant will exclaim, Are^^Jeall to be damned ? 
Are you Catholics, and no others, going to be saved ? Who 
are you, that judge us so harshly ? 

My very dear heretic, you understand with your elbows, 
as most Protestants do, when they hear any thing said about 
religious matters. I have not said that you, or any of you, 
will be damned. God forbid. So far as you are concerned, 
I just say this : I am afraid that you won’t understand it, 
though ; for, although it is the a, b, c, of religion, to most of 
you it is like x, y, z, which are, in algebra, unknown quanti- 
ties. There is no salvation out of the one true Church of 
Christ Jesus, the living Son of God. Then who dies out of 
it will be damned eternally. Those two propositions are 
equivalent, and yet I have met few Protestants who could see 
any connection between them ; but let that pass. Take the 
first proposition as the major of a syllogism. Then the minor 
would be this : But you are out of this Church. 

Now, I do not assert this minor. I know of no authority 
on earth that can assert it with authority, unless it be the 
Church. But don’t breathe so freely. It is true that the 
Church may, in certain cases, mean the Pope. But Pius IX. 
is too far off, and I don’t mean to send you to him to ask if 
you be in the true Church or not. For my private opinion is, 
you won’t take the trouble to go ; you would be afraid that 
they would clap you into the Inquisition, where you would 
get nothing to eat but bread, soup, meat, and fruit ; and have 
nothing to drink but wine, with water at discretion. The 
Church may mean all the faithful under one head. But I 
don’t know that you could consult all of them, they are so 
scattered. You would find very many thousands of them 
living in countries where the profession of the true faith is 
visited with whipping, hanging, and starving, and your faith 


151 


is not strong enough to carry you there. The Church may 
mean the bishops assembled in general council. But they 
met three hundred years ago, long before you were born ; and, 
long before they meet again, you will be dead, buried, and 
JUDGED. No, the matter is very easy. The voice of the 
Church must always be a living voice ; it was meant to be 
heard by every creature ; it was meant to be heard by you. 
For us Catholics, as individual members of the Church, the 
voice of our bishop, in communion with the Holy See, is the 
very living voice of the Church. He who hears it^ hears 
Christ He who despises despises Christ Well, then, the 
matter lies in a nutshell. If you live in Massachusetts, the 
voice of the Church to you is the voice of John Fitzpatrick, 
by the grace of God and appointment of the Apostolic See, 
Bishop of Boston, in partihus injidelium. I am afraid I must 
add. You are his child, although you are a rebellious one. 
You must go to him and ask whether you are in the true 
Church. You must have an infallible answer to that ques- 
tion, or you are lost. He is the only one in these regions 
who can answer it in a proper way. 

The syllogism would then run thus : — 

Out of the true Church, there is no salvation. But you are 
out of the true Church. 

And here you must stop. Syllogisms like this one are the 
infinite decimals of logic ; you can’t get at the end of them 
this side the grave ; and when you get to the other side, you 
are past ciphering and reasoning. The conclusion of that 
syllpgism, if any one could draw it, would be : — 

Therefore there is no salvation for you. 

But no one can draw it. Only One. The Church is infal- 
lible ; but she seldom receives revelations, and she has no 
authority to draw that conclusion. It will be drawn for you, 
and for me, and for every one, at the last day. It will be done 
in these words : Come ! ye blessed. Depart ! ye cursed. 
The number and the names of the elect are written in a 
book, it is true ; but no one has power to open it, unless it be 
the Lion of the tribe of Judah. We know well enough that 
you are not in the Church of Christ. You may plead that our 
knowledge does not bind you ; but your plea avails you 
nothing ; because, although we have no authority to teach 
you, we can send you to several here in America, who were 
sent expressly to teach you and me. No one says that you 
are bound to hear me ; but if you will not hear the Church, I 


152 


liave good authority for saying that you are heathens and 
publicans. No one can say that you will be lost forever, 
because no one can foresee whether you will persist in your 
rebellion to the last. The mercy of God may lead you into the 
Church, and then you will be in the way of salvation, and not 
before. If you do persist in denying thedaith to the end, you 
are one of those of whom Christ spoke, when he said, He 
that believeth not shall be damned. If you are determined 
not to hear the Church, you have already judged yourself ; 
and, if the penalty be severe, you have no right to complain. 
You can escape it, if you will. 

Now, every Catholic will understand what I have said ; but 
1 have no idea that you will. You are one of those who have 
ears and do not hear. I shouldn’t be at all surprised to hear 
you turn round and say. What bigotry ! what ferocious 
bigotry ! That unfeeling Papist says that we all will be 
damned. Lord love you ; I didrCt say it. Take care that 
you do not mistake my voice for one coming from the secret 
depths of your own soul. Come ! I have done with you. 
Yet I wish that every morning, noon, and night, you would 
repeat the blind man’s prayer. Domine, ut videam — Lord, 
that I may see ! 

My business is rather with Catholics, and I was talking 
about Catholic boys when you interrupted me. They are 
surely children of the Church. She has a right to speak to 
them, and they have a right to hear her. You may try to 
excuse yourself and others by saying that you knew nothing 
about the Church ; on the score of invincible ignorajiice, 
in short. I hope that your excuse will be found good. But 
do not plead it, unless you are sure that you are, and have 
been always, laboring under invincible ignorance. This obser- 
vation leads to a result that may make you stare. It is, that 
if you plead that you are now laboring under that infirmity, 
as an excuse for remaining a Protestant, you are pleading 
that two and two make Jive. If you plead it for others who 
are dead and gone, I have nothing to say ; tfiey are in the 
hands of God ; the tree has fallen either to the north or to 
the south, and where it has fallen, there it must lie, forever 
and ever. If you plead it as an excuse for your past diso- 
bedience, it may pass, provided you repent, believe, and be 
baptized. But, if you allege it as an excuse for present diso- 
bedience, the paralogism would be very comical, if its results 
were not so fearful to you. Either you know that you are 


153 


invincibly ignorant, or you do not. If you do not, you ara 
insincere in alleging it as an excuse. Then you do know it. 
Then you are not ignorant that you are invincibly ignorant ; 
you know something, and you know that you do not know that 
something ; you know and you do not know the same thing 
at the same time. Q. E. D. 

Poor man ! poor man ! If you ever had a doubt about 
the state of your soul, you were at once put out, and put 
forever out of the state of invincible ignorance, admitting 
that you were ever in it. And if you neglected that doubt, 
you did another thing — you grieved the Spirit of God. 

But, whatever you may do, a Catholic can wever allege any 
such excuse. He might as well look at the sun, and say that 
it does not shine. He might as well think, and, while he is 
thinking, think that he does not exist. A mark was set upon 
his soul at baptism, which he cannot efface. All the powers 
of earth and of hell combined cannot rub it out. The 
omnipotence of God could not efface it, without annihilating 
the soul that bears it, which will never be done. If he be 
saved, it will shine in heaven like a star set in God’s throne. 
If he be damned, it will blaze out to - tell the demons that 
a star has fallen from the skies. And when this mark was 
made, there was infused into his soul the hahit, the gift of 
' faith. When he comes to the age of reason, he has that 
lamp already lighted in his soul, even as a lamp shining in a 
dark place. If he does not obey the Church during his life- 
time, at least he feels and knows that he ought to obey 
her. This last is the state which mak^ up the hell on 
earth poor Universalists talk about, and which the undutiful 
Catholic carries about in his bosom. It was my state, child 
as I was, when I went to meetings where strange gods were 
worshipped. It is the state of every one of those “ Catholics 
of the Caiholics^'^ those men who go to Church, but neglect 
their duties ; those men who would die for the Church, but 
will not live a day for iier. O God, their name is Legion ; 
the road to hell is crowded with them. Above all, it is the 
state of those miserable wretches, those torturers, betrayers, 
and crucifiers of Jesus Christ who have renounced their faith, 
who deny him before men. As if they could renounce it ! 
As if they could still the voice that sometimes will be heard, 
telling them that they are, and will be in time and in eternity, 
members of the one Church ; telling them that their diso- 
bedience does noty and cannot^ wipe away the mark that was 


164 


stamped by her upon their souls ; telling them that they are 
* tying millstones and millstones about their own necks ; telling 
them that they will be always known to heaven, earth, and 
hell as the servants who knew the will of their Master, and 
did it not ; telling them that, as Judas sank into damnation 
with his commission as an apostle in his hand, so will they 
sink, with the mark of a traitorous Christian seared upon their 
foreheads. 

Stand forward, then, “ Friends and Fathers,” who take from 
the poor widow her only child, and surround him with people 
who are sworn to crush Popery in every possible way, and 
more especially by teaching Catholic boys to trample upon 
the cross, whereon hung your Judge and ours. Stand for- 
ward, pious old and young ladies, who club together to 
wheedle, and, if necessary, to steal young Catholic girls from 
their friends, so that they may learn to curse the faith of their 
mothers, or to vomit, as Protestant female lips so love to do, 
blasphemies upon the name of the mother of God, as if her 
honor were not yours ; as if you could make her a liar when 
she said that all generations should call her blessed. Stand 
forward, all of you, and see if you are not doing the work of 
devils. Why, look at it ! Suppose, for a moment, that the 
Catholic Church is not the true Church. I know that it is an 
outrageous supposition ; but I want to make you understand 
one thing, if it be possible. Suppose it, then, for the sake of 
argument. The most of you say that it is a corrupt Church, 
but that, as it teaches the leading doctrines of Christianity, it 
is very likely that good men are, and have been, within its 
pale; that salvation may be attained by her children. You 
object, not that she denies any truth revealed by Christ, but 
that she has added to those truths other things which she com- 
mands us to believe and to do. This is the sum of your 
. objections. You own that she is a church ; but yoif add that 
she is a superstitious Church ; she does not teach too little^ but 
too much. 

Of course, there are plenty of people who say that we are 
stupid idolaters ; that we worship images and the Virgin 
Mary ; that we can get sins pardoned, and buy leave to com- 
mit more, for money ; that we are denied the Bible ; and say, 
I don’t know what other dreadful things besides. But these are 
the Protestant moh. You, “ Friends and Fathers,” you, pious 
old and young ladies, know a great deal better. You are 
honest and intelligent. You will agree with me in saying that 


155 


the poor people who accuse us of such things are either fools 
or conscious liars — fools, if, in the blaze of light which fills 
our age, they really believe such silly tales ; liars, and very 
impudent ones, too, if they know any thing at all about the 
Catholic Church. 

Very well, then. You' own that Catholics, who live and 
die such, can be saved at last. Clinch that nail. 

Now, suppose that a child, or a man, believes in his 
soul that there is only one Church, and that that is the Ro- 
man Catholic Church. Suppose that he believes firmly, that 
for Am, whatever may be the case with others^ there is no 
salvation out of this Church ; that he must obey her com- 
mandments, or be eternally damned. Suppose he believes 
all this. 

Now, suppose that, with these articles of belief in his soul, 
he goes to a Protestant meeting regularly. It makes little 
difference to my present purpose whether he is made to go, 
or whether he goes willingly. Just suppose that he goes. 
Suppose that he knows ^ all the while, that he is violating 
almost every commandment of that one Church, out of which 
there is no salvation for him. 

My dear souls, do you think that these are only supposi- 
tions ? If you do, you were never more mistaken. They 
are the actual feelings of every Catholic who neglects his 
duties, and goes to any of your meetings habitually. If you 
have read this story thus far, you will see that they were my 
feelings, child as I was. Every penitent that returns to the 
warm bosom of Christ after sinning in this way, says that 
these were his feelings. There are some hardened ones, who 
were brought up Catholics, and who have denied their faith, 
who would laugh to hear me say this. They would say that 
they have no such feelings. I would like to lead them to the 
altar where they received their first communion, and were, 
perhaps, confirmed ; and there, in the presence of the blessed 
sacrament, and looking steadily at the crucifix, I would ask 
them to say again that they never have such feelings. The 
fact is, they have them ; but like myself, when I went to your 
meetings, they do not have them always. Days, weeks, 
months may pass without their intrusion ; but some little inci- 
dent, something seen or heard, will all at once open the flood- 
gates of the heart, and, O God ! how the pent up agony 
rushes in ! 

These, then, are the feelings of every Catholic who denies 


156 


his faith ; who really believes that there is no salvation for 
him out of the Roman Catholic Church ; and who, notwith- 
standing, neglects her commandments, and goes to other 
places of worship. 

Now, I ask you this plain question. Can a man who dies 
in that state, who perseveres in it to the end, save his soul ? 

Mind, I ask you. To Catholics the thing is as evident as 
it is that a mountain is bigger than a mouse. 

And so I believe it is to you. Here is a man who be- 
lieves that he must do an honest action, or he will be damned ; 
and yet he persists in not doing it. Why, of course, there is 
no salvation for him. 

You may say that he was mistaken, if you like. You may 
call it a case of false conscience. I don’t care. For I am not 
now trying to prove that the Catholic Church is the true 
church : you know I am not. I am now arguing, even on 
the monstrous supposition, that it may not he the only true 
church. And I think that you agree with me that, even in 
that case, the man who believes that it is, and that he cannot 
be saved out of it, and yet dies out of it, has no chance of 
eternal life. 

Do you scratch your heads } Well, I will put it in this 
way. To gain eternal life, we must keep the commandments, 
— must we not Well, such a man does not keep the com- 
mandments. Then he will not gain eternal life. In other 
words, he will be eternally damned. I suppose that you will 
agree to that, unless, with Pelagius, you say that eternal life 
and the kingdom of heaven are two very different things. 

Such a man does not keep the commandments ; because 
he believes, rightly or wrongly, that when he disobeys the 
Church, he disobeys, despises, tramples upon God’s com- 
mandments.. But he does disobey the Church. Then he 
believes that he disobeys and despises the commandments of 
God. Then he will not gain eternal life. Mind you, 1 do not 
assert that he would be damned for despising any merely hu- 
man authority. I know that you regard the authority of the 
Roman Catholic Church as human. But the good and the 
bad Catholic knows that, when he disobeys her, he disobeys 
God. 

1 will make it yet plainer to you. You have a child, a 
little boy. You forbid him, in the most positive manner, to 
go to a certain drawer, and eat the apple that is in it. He 
goes to the drawer, and he finds in it an apple and a. pear. 


157 


He forgets the words of your commandment ; he thinks that 
you told him not to eat the pear^ and that you said nothing 
about the apple. Although he thinks so, yet he takes the 
pear, and eats it, leaving the apple untouched. Suppose that 
you had no objections to his eating the pear, when you gave 
the order about the apple. 

Now, I ask you whether that child would not be guilty of 
the sin of disobedience. Why, of course he would. It is 
true that he did not eat the fruit you really forbade. But he 
believed that you forbade the pear, and yet he ate it. His 
disobedience was formal^ as they say, although it was not 
material. That is, he did not do the thing xohich was forbid- 
den, but he did a thing which he believed was forbidden, and 
so he was guilty of sin. 

Change the state of the case. Suppose he still believes 
that you forbade the pear; and, acting under that impression, 
he lets it alone, and eats the apple. Now, he has done a thing 
you told him not to do. But is he guilty of the sin of dis- 
obedience Of course, he is not. He did as he believed you 
commanded ; he let the pear alone. If he had recollected 
what you really did say, he would have let the apple alone. 

One of your great men, whose words you are wont to 
treasure up, writes thus about the Blessed Sacrament : — 

Some people, he says, call the Papists idolaters, because 
they adore the wafer, the host, with the adoration due to God. 
But the objection is not well considered. The belief is a false 
one ; but, as they do thus believe, they would do wrong in 
not adoring it. Christ ought to be worshipped wherever he 
is. If he is in the host, he ought, of course, to be worshipped 
in it. And if he is there, and is not worshipped, he does not 
receive what is due to him. Then the Papist is not an idola- 
ter. When he worships the host, he adores the eternal Son 
of God, whom he verily believes there present, and so he by 
no means violates the first commandment. 

There, I think that the thing ought to be plain to your un- 
derstandings. There is a little boy here, listening to me, and 
he says that he understood it long ago. I asked him what he 
understood } 

I understand very well that a Catholic who disobeys the 
commandments of the Church can’t save his soul, unless he 
is sorry, and comes back. 

Bravo, little boy ! 

Stand forward, then, “ Friends apd Fathers;” sis^ for- 
14 


158 


ward, pious young and old ladies, and see if you are not do- 
ing the work of devils. What is their work ? It is that of 
destroying souls. See how zealously you are laboring in tho 
same wicked office. You may wheedle or steal the child 
from its friends ; you may so encompass him with wiles that 
he will do your bidding. But what then ? You have taught 
him to go one way, when he knows that he ought to go 
another. You have taught him to shun the ark, out of which 
he knows there is no safety. You have so entangled him in 
your meshes that the poor wretch thinks there is no escape. 
And as he lives he may die, unless God have mercy upon 
his soul. Stand forward, and see how you are doing the work 
of devils. 

This House of Reformation was a trap for Catholic souls ; 
and it is yet. .There are other traps, cunningly devised by 
the same “ Friends and Fathers.” Your Farm Schools and 
your State Reform Schools are no places for Catholic children. 
Better leave them in the street ; it is a less dangerous school. 
If they will lose their souls, better lose them there. For, in 
the first place, the lessons they learn in the street cahnot be 
worse than those they learn when they are shut up with bad 
boys. Then, by giving them to “ Friends and Fathers,” to 
be shut up in “ little heavens below,” you consent that they 
shall lose that faith hy which alone they can really be re- 
formed. I repeat it. If your children will not be saved, do 
not make the matter worse for them. Do not deprive them 
of the only resource they have left, if they should^ at any 
time, wish to repent of their sins. If they are to be lost, it is 
better to be punished for one sin, than for two. There are 
degrees of damnation. He who is guilty of all the deadly 
sins, will fare better than he will who is as guilty, and who 
has also deprived himself of the means of returning to God. 
Just as the man who has wilfully travelled a forbidden road 
is not so guilty as he who has put out his own eyes^ so that he 
may not find the right path again. 

I had been a year in the House when I got a surprise. The 
boy who was with me, on the Common, joined us. I hap- 
pened, at that time, to be head monitor. He looked quite 
ashamed when he saw me, and he had some reason. . I never 
settled it in my own mind that either of the two boys had done 
such a mean action towards me, and yet I could not think that 
the little box found its way into my pocket by accident. I 


had ceased to think of it long before this boy came to the 
house. 

I waited until he had got into one of the upper grades, and 
then I had a long talk with him. He told me that he had 
been sent to the House for stealing several little articles from 
his master. Not the lawyer, — he had-^lost that place for 
some trick or other that he did not want then to explain to 
me, — but from another man, in whose shop he worked. A 
few days after, he asked me if I ever guessed how the box 
got into my pocket. I told him that I suspected he had some 
hand in it, but in what way I could not tell. Then he told 
me the whole story. He had stolen the box. But there was 
so much noise made about it in the house, and out of it, that 
he was frightened, and he determined to hide it some where, 
until the thing would be forgotten. When we were together, 
on the Common, the thought struck him that I was in the 
house the same day the box was stolen, and that, as I was so 
green^ it would be easy to play me a trick. So he slipped 
the box into my pocket when we were going home. The 
other boy saw him do it, and knew what it meant. Then he 
told his master that he had seen a little velvet box, with gold 
clasps, in my possession. After that, I was taken, and I knew 
the rest. 

I waited for the next monthly admission of visitors, before 
I said any thing about it. I wanted to consult Mr. Groan, and 
see what he would tell me to do. When he came, I told him 
what had happened, and he was very glad. See, John, said 
he, how the truth always comes out. It was well that you did 
not run away, for you would always live in fear and trem- 
bling. Now you can walk honorably out of the House. Then 
he told me just what to do, and he said that he would try to 
get a good place for me. 

The next day I asked the boy to repeat his story before a 
few others. He did so, willingly.' But when I wanted him 
to go with me, and repeat it to. Mr. Willis, he was afraid. 
Perhaps they might keep me here longer for it, said he. 

I went up to Mr. Willis’s room, and^put the case to him, 
without mentioning any names. He answered very kindly, — 
indeed, he was always good to me, — and he said that no harm 
whatever would befall such a boy for it. Indeed, said he, it 
would do him some good with the directors ; for it would 
show that he was willing to repair his fault as well as he 


160 


could, so that he would be favorably considered when the time 
of discharge might arrive. 

I went back, and told the boy. But it was not for some 
days that I could persuade him to do this act of justice. At ' 
last he did it, and I was present at the time. I said nothing 
to Mr. Willis that day. But on the next I went to him, and 
told him that I was entitled to a discharge. He said that he 
had been thinking about it himself, and that he had no objec- 
tion. But, he added, I can do nothing. The directors will 
meet in two or three days, and I will lay the case before them. 
Whatever they decide, you shall know. 

They met ; and the next day I went to Mr. Willis. John, 
said he, I told your affair to the directors last night.’ But 
there is an unexpected difficulty. Deacon Mills says that you 
were sent here for other things, — for disobedient habits, 
keeping street company, and so on. But the directors con- 
sidered that you have been well behaved, and they have in- 
structed me to get you a good place at the first opportunity. 

I said no more. About a week after, I was called to his 
room, and he gave me joy as soon as I entered. There was 
a strange man in the room. John, said he, here is a very 
worthy man, w’ho wants a boy. I have concluded to let you 
go with him. He will teach you the bootmaker’s trade. 

Where do you live, sir ? I asked. 

At Randolph. 

How far is it from here ? 

About fifteen miles. 

Is there a Catholic church in the place, or could I go to a 
Catholic church on Sundays ? 

Mr. Willis looked very angry, and the man started to his 
feet, and came close to me. 

Are you a Catholic boy } 

Pooh ! he doesn’t know what he is saying, interposed the 
master. 

I am ! said I, very stoutly. And I will not go with you, if 
you will not promise to let me go to a Catholic church. 

Well, I kinder guess you won’t hitch bosses with me, then. 

Fust and foremost, there ain’t none of your meetins nearer 
than the city, and I rather guess you won’t go there every 
Sunday. Then my old woman, and the gals, would fly out 
of their skins, I reckon, if a Catholic was to come into the 
house. They’d expect Old Nick was come, horns and huffs. 


161 


So I reckon I’ll look at another boy, Mr. Willis. And master 
told me to clear out. 

The same day he called me back. John, said he, I was 
very much astonished and grieved at what passed this morn- 
ing. Do not let it happen again, or it may be worse for 
you. 

I don’t wish to be disrespectful, sir. But if Deacon Mills 
thinks he is going to cheat me out of my religion, he may as 
well give it up. I came into this House without deserving it, 
and against my will ; for I had a good place, where I could 
go to church ; and I won’t go out of the House till that loss 
is made good. If I have to go into the country, I might as 
well say that I’ll be a Protestant at once. And I went to my 
class. 

The House was in a great uproar the next day. Two boys 
had escaped. It was the day for monthly visitors, and one 
of them had vanished in the early morning. There was a 
thick mist that favored his purpose, and he was in his 
mother’s house, in the city, before his absence was known. 
Notice was given to the constables, and for a week the house 
was closely watched, so that a mouse could not enter or go 
out without attracting notice. But the bird had flown. Fe- 
males w'ere allowed to pass freely, of course. The boy had 
several sisters, and he went out, one morning, dressed in the 
garments of one of them. His mother presided at his toilet, 
and the work was well done. 

The other boy was the only son of his mother, and she was 
a widow. The boy was a little unruly, and Deacon Mills said 
so much to her about the “ little heaven below,” and about 
the care which would be taken of the boy by “ Friends and 
Fathers,” and told her so energetically that it was only a 
school, and that she might have her boy when she wanted 
him, that the woman gave him her son. He had to get a cer- 
tificate from the Police Court, of course ; but the mother 
knew nothing of that. Well, after a few months, she wanted 
the boy. He had never been very bad, and her eyes were 
now opened to the true character of the little heaven. So 
she asked for her child. But “ Friends and Fathers ” laughed 
at her, and told her she was a foolish woman. Deacon Mills 
never told her that she could have the boy when she wanted him. 
He was in very good hands ; better hands than hers. Why 
did she not take care of him when she had him at home ? 
Pooh! woman, pooh! woman, I never gave you any such 
14 * 


102 




proiniee. You are dreaming. Go away, go to work. The 
boy is with friends. 

Well, she was a right courageous little woman. She got a 
chaise, and left it at the gate, under the charge of her sister. 
She came into the House, and sat down, as usual, to talk with 
her boy. She watched her opportunity, and when no one was 
looking, she took the boy under her cloak, — it was a full 
and long one, — and walked with him down the front steps. 
Fortunately, no one saw the thing. She tumbled him into the 
chaise, and the horse ran as if he knew all about it, and was 
determined to get into the city before the boy was missed, as, 
in fact, he did. 

“ Friends and Fathers ” were very mad about it, you may 
be sure. They stormed at her house like bulls of Bashan. 
They told her that she must give up the boy, or go to jail. 
And to jail she chose to go. She said that her boy was safe ; 
and if that place was heaven, he had better be in hell. 

Another little fellow escaped the Sunday before. Every 
soul in the house was at chapel, according to the rule. The 
boy knew this, and so he chose the time when Mr. Willis was 
in the middle of the litany, to get up quietly and walk out. 
He forgot to come back. 

I told Mr. Groan all that had happened. He said that he would 
take the matter in hand, and he did. He procured a place 
for me that week. It was in the house of a Catholic, at Hart- 
ford, Connecticut. There was an opportunity, and a good 
one, too, for me to learn the printing business. I had no 
objection to the trade, for I knew that it would throw a great 
deal of reading in my way. The gentleman who was to re- 
ceive me into his house was then in Boston, and he arranged 
matters with Mr. Groan. Then he went to the directors, who 
received him civilly ; but, when he intimated that he wanted 
me, and let slip the unlucky fact that he was a Catholic, there 
was an end to the business. They were sorry, but they had 
other views for me. Besides, there was a legal difficulty. 
The boy cannot be taken out of the state. The gentleman 
was obliged to return to Hartford ; but Mr. Groan said that I 
should be released. So he besieged the directors for two 
months. He dogged them in season and out of season. He 
would intrude upon them at their meetings, to the great wrath 
of Deacon Mills, who often gave him a homily, taking for his 
text, — Mind your own business. Mr. Groan would not have 
succeeded, had it not been for lawyer Black, my old master, 


163 


to whom he told the whole story. Mr. Black said that a case 
80 full of flaws could be easily broken down, and that he 
would be the man to do it. And so he was. In a few days 
the important paper was obtained. Deacon Mills gave me up 
as a hopeless case. I was discharged ; and, after getting into 
a new suit of clothes, I bade good-by to the “ little heaven 
below,” with my compliments to “ Friends and Fathers.” A 
few precious minutes were spent with Mary Riley ; but I did 
not know how to spend them. I was a great awkward boy 
of thirteen ; she was a graceful beauty of twelve. She did 
not kiss me, and she said nothing about our living together ; but 
she was very kind for all that, and she cried when I went 
away. As for me, I blubbered like a fool. I went to thank 
Mr. Black ; bade good-by to Mr. Groan, and got into the 
stage, which rolled on all night, and left me at Hartford, the 
next day, before noon. 


CHAPTER VI. 

TOHN ESCAPES FROM “ FRIENDS AND FATHERS.” HE FINDS 

THAT CHRISTIANITY IS NOT AT HOME IN CONNECTICUT. 

HE BECOMES A PRINTER. BECOMES A NUISANCE IN THE 

OFFICE. WONDERS WHAT NATURE MEANT TO DO WITH 

HIM. 

It was a cold ride, for it was October, and I was alone in 
the stage all night. We passed through Worcester a few 
hours before sunrise. This is now a city ; and there is a 
Catholic college there, and two churches, one of them quite 
a large and handsome one. But at that time it was a small 
town, and there was no Catholic society. I believe that one 
Catholic family lived there then ; but there did not seem to 
be any likelihood of a Catholic addition to the inhabitants of 
the town, and the man thought of removing elsewhere. The 
Catholic interest is strong there now. 

I found my new master, whose name was Talfourd. He 
made me soon feel at home, and, while it lasted, it was a 
good one. I lived in Hartford a year and a half. The greatest 


164 


event thaV same off, so far as I was concerned, was my ad- 
mission to the sacraments, which I had so long needed. My 
previous neglect of them had brought trouble upon me, and I 
was quite disposed to do my part, so that I might receive them 
without delay. It was about six years since I had tried to 
make my confession ; and now, when I made a second 
attempt, my childish terror returned, notwithstanding that I 
despised it. But the grace of God, and the kindness of my 
director, enabled me to battle with my Protestant education 
successfully. I went again and again. I felt a legion of 
enemies pushing me away as I entered, and as many friendly 
spirits blessing me when I went out. It has been always so. 
The frequent repetition of the duty never could lessen the 
repugnance felt while about to do it, nor the peace and com- 
fort enjoyed when it was done. 

What a splendid edifice it builds from the ruins of human 
pride ! It is not wonderful that the true Catholic loves it, nor 
that the true Protestant hates it. The Catholic knows that 
pride is the one great bar to salvation, and that when it is 
broken, other sins die apace ; and there is no crucible in which 
pride so rapidly disappears. 

The tribunal was not meant for the direct relief of misery 
arising from worldly misfortunes, but they are driven away 
withal, or made endurable ; for there we are taught that 
earthly troubles may become stones in our house above the 
stars. Then He, who tells us to go and sin no more, was true 
man, as well as true God. He knew sorrow, and he was 
acquainted with grief. And so our worldly miseries become 
light as we tell them to Him ; for, without our knowing it. 
He lays them upon his own shoulders, which have borne so 
much. 

Suicide is not a vice of Catholic countries, then. Neither 
is religious insanity. That is a disease which causes irre- 
pressible wonder in a Catholic community. And so it ought, 
for confession is a sovereign remedy. The malady commonly 
springs from a despair of God’s mercy. There is no wonder 
that it is common among Protestants, for their system pro- 
vides no remedy. A minister may gather his people together, 
and get up a revival ; a semblance of religious life that is 
only a semblance, because it stands to 'real spiritual life as 
galvanic motion in a corpse does to the motion of a living 
body. • He may harangue them three times a day upon the 
last great things, Death, Judgment, and Hell. He may fill 


165 


the anxious seats with poor souls, asking what they shall do 
to be saved. He can get some of his people to think seriously 
upon the state of their conscier;ces ; to realize the fact that 
they are going to die ; that they must be judged by the most 
holy, most incorruptible, and most just Judge ; and that if 
they do not repent and amend, they will sink into hell. These 
are terrible considerations, and if you can only get a sinner 
to think of them seriously, you have taken an important step. 
The most they will commonly do is, they will dwell an instant 
upon them, when any thing is seen or heard to force them 
upon their thoughts, just long enough to produce an uneasy 
sensation ; to make them tremble with Felix. But, alas ! like 
Felix, they say to the monitor. Go thy way now, and at a 
more convenient season I will attend to thee. But at a revival, 
many people attend who profess to be willing to think seriously 
about these matters, and an earnest preacher can present them 
in ways that wake up the slumbering conscience at last. And 
then comes the conviction of sin. The minister has now 
done all that he can, and he is thereafter powerless for good 
or for evil. With all the resources of Protestantism at his 
command, he can do no more. He can simply get a sinner 
to think of his state, and that is all. He shows him the gates 
of heaven bolted and barred, and shows not the hand that can 
open them. He points to the yawning mouth of hell ; he 
tells the poor soul that he is tottering on the brink, and he 
points not out the strong arm that is mighty to save. 

True, he tries to calm the affrighted sinner. He talks 
about pardon and redemption, about the blood of Christ, and 
the certainty of forgiveness to the truly repentant. But it is 
all talk. The difficulty lies precisely here. Any man can 
take a person who is willing to think soberly, and put him in 
a mortal fright by making him think of the judgment. But 
only he who is sent for the purpose can really bring relief to 
the sufferer. When you are in that awful state of the mind 
known as conviction of sin, you need repentance. Where 
will you get it } It is a gift of God, and He disposes his 
gifts as best pleases Him. Because you have succeeded in 
finding that you are a lost sinner, it does not follow that you 
can demand the grace of contrition as a matter of justice. 
You can hope for it only as a boon of mercy. 

Well, here Protestantism fails. The minister and the suf- 
ferers, to obtain the grace of contrition, rely upon the same 
human means which were employed in getting the soul to 


166 


consider seriously its own state. Those means are — words. 
In the beginning it was — words about justice ; and then it ia 
— words about mercy. But words that will arouse convic- 
tion will not bring mercy. Neither will wishes make it come. 
Protestants accuse us of relying upon human means for ob- 
taining it. Every Catholic knows how very foolish the accu- 
sation is ; but, even if it were true, it comes with a bad grace 
from them^ considering that their whole scheme of salvation 
rests upon merely human agency. Most of them will deny 
this stoutly ; for, in truth, their confessions of faith say no 
such thing. But it is so, nevertheless. One reason why they 
think otherwise, is the strange hallucination under which 
they labor, to the effect that words of holiness are tantamount 
•to deeds of it ; that talking about mercy is the same thing 
as to get it ; that saying the very true thing that Christ is 
able and willing to save, is a saying that brings salvation ; 
that acknowledging the need of contrition is the same thing 
as to get it. The fact that the essence of Catholic worship is 
sacrifice^ and that of Protestant worship is talking,^ is a very 
significant one, and it illustrates the matter in hand. Con- 
trition, then, is God’s gift ; it comes by his grace. We can- 
not bring it down, any more than we can make the heavens 
rain. The Protestant who is sensible of sin is in a deplorable 
state. If he resolutely turns his thoughts upon something 
else, he will get present relief. And so, many of them who 
flock to revival meetings, and who begin to grow uneasy at 
the view of the life they have lived, and the uncertainty of 
the future, either go no more to the place where such unpleas 
ant things are dwelt upon, or, if they go, they make excel 
lent resolutions, to be kept at some future day, when then 
farm is bought, their wife married, and their merchandise 
exchanged. Some good souls listen very earnestly to the 
speaker, while he is trying to tell how dreadful will be the 
condition of the sinner before the bar of God, and they think 
that Mr. Snooks, or Mrs. Stubbs, will have a sharp reckoning 
one of these days. 

Then there are some who experience religion, who feel 
that they have got pardon. Who feel it. Yes, that is just 
the word. Protestant religion^ as such, is simply a religion 
of sentiment. They who have experienced religion always 
feel that they have got it. They always feel that joy and 
peace that passes all understanding. It is feeling. They 
are always sure of it. Now, every true Christian, from St. 


167 


Paul to Father Pallotti, who died in the odor of sanctity not 
long ago at Rome, knows that this is not true religion. 

There is a peace — who doubts it ? — which is the peace of 
God. But it does not come from any certainty of ours con- 
cerning our acceptableness before Christ, simply because we 
cannot have any such certainty, unless by special revelation. 
It comes from other sources. For the rest, we hear one great 
saint saying that the life of man is an agony upon the earth. 
We hear the apostle, who had been taken up into the third 
heaven, saying that he feared lest he might be reprobate. 
We hear him exhorting us to work out our salvation vfiXhfear 
tind trejnbling ; and most frequently are we reminded of the 
great truth, that man knoweth not whether he be worthy of 
love or hatred. We see our Lord fasting, watching, and pray- 
ing ; yet we see him tempted by devils, and plunged into a 
sea of agony. jMo Christian knows that he is a son of God, 
OY feels that he will persevere unto the end. 

This feeling of peace, security, and sensible joy, is well 
known to those who are experienced in the direction of souls, 
or .who are familiar with mystical theology. So far from 
being a thing to be prized, it ought always to be regarded 
with distrust. For it is precisely the form which the devil 
takes when he appears as an angel of light ; and in this form 
he has deceived many. Not that this feeling always comes 
from an evil source. It is sometimes the work of God. But 
an inexperienced Christian cannot always discern spirits, and 
he not unfrequently mistakes the work of the devil for a ray 
of light from heaven. I had far rather hear one say that he 
cannot even pray without being tormented with involuntary 
distractions, than that he always feels so comfortable when 
he prays, or receives, that he is continually saying to Christ, 
Lord, it is good for us to be here ! I cannot help urging 
him to pray very earnestly, and to watch very closely, for fear 
that while he feels that he is with Christ on Mount Thabor, 
the scene may suddenly change, and that he will find himself 
with Christ, surrounded by enemies in the garden. His com- 
fortable feeling will go away, — he will be too likely to forsake 
his Master, and basely fly. 

T\i\^ feeling is so far from being commonly experienced by 
the real children of light, that it is in their souls the excep- 
tion, and not the rule. They are only favored with the real 
feeling at rare intervals. With pious Protestants, it is quite 
the reverse. It is noticeable, too, that the very greatest saints 


168 


are often troubled, not only with a total want of this fervor, this 
pleasant senlhnent of the divine Presence, but they are af- 
flicted not seldom with the very opposite feeling. St. Frances 
of Chantal is an instance among hundreds. St. Francis of 
Sales is a most remarkable case in point. For years he felt 
that he was abandoned by God, and all this time he was 
living a life of angelic holiness. St. Gertrude owns to like 
feelings. Now, this feeling in them was just as false as the 
opposite feeling of very great peace is in many serious Prot- 
estants and sentimental Catholics. In both cases, the feeling 
is an illusion, permitted by God. 

The way persons in a revival get up these feelings is sim- 
ple enougL Any one can produce it, at almost any time. 
The thought of death, judgment, and hell is a terrifying one, 
and the sinner, whether Protestant or Catholic, who can be 
induced to dwell upon it seriously, will feel very wretched. 
But the thought of heaven and a happy immortality is quite a 
pleasant one ; and when we entertain it, we feel very com- 
fortable. Here is the secret of the feelings of joy, and of 
assurance of pardon, with which poor Protestants so often 
cheat themselves and others. They think busily about the 
beauty of heaven ; they imagine that they will surely go 
there ; and in their transports of joy they sing glory, hallelu- 
jah. Amen. Poor people ! Poor dupes ! 

The religious scenes that Protestants get up periodically 
are very aptly called revivals of religion. To revive any 
thing, is to make a thing that was dead live once more. So 
Protestant religion is dead almost all the time, and it is only 
once in a great while that it starts into life. And, even then, 
its life is of the lowest kind ; it is animal life, it is mere feel- 
ing. Revivals have nothing to do with the operations of the 
intellect., and little with the operations of the will. 

But suppose that a poor soul has been aroused to a sense 
of guilt, and in spite of her efforts, of those of her friends, 
and of the minister, she cannot fix her thoughts upon any thing 
else. It is a case which very frequently happens. Ministers 
will be ambitious. Dr. Boggs will be uneasy because Dr. 
Coggs has got a hundred men, women, and children on the 
anxious seat, while he has only got sixty. Ministers will for- 
get the advice of one of their brethren, who was quite expe- 
rienced in getting up revivals, and who warned them against 
“ kindling more fires than they could tend ; ” that is, not to 
get so many souls into spasms of terror on account of their 


169 


sins, that you cannot finish your revival without sending a 
dozen or so to the madhouse. He was an honest old man ; 
and in those few words he showed honestly what the stuff is 
of which revivals are made. He proves what I said just now 
— that Protestants make human agency the basis of their 
whole scheme of salvation. It is the minister that makes the 
fire. He must tend it. If he makes a great many more 
than he can tend, he cannot leave the matter to the Spirit of 
God, who certainly should complete the work, if it were his. 
No ; the minister must complete the work he has begun. He 
has frightened them into fits ; he must get them out the best 
way he can. He has only human means at his command, 
and if they will not answer, he has no help. It is true, he 
talks about mercy, grace, the Spirit of Love, and says a great 
many good words besides. It is true that he, and all they 
who are concerned in creating these horrible delusions, pre- 
tend that the whole thing is an outpouring of the Spirit. So 
it is. But not of the Spirit of Light. As if He, whose very 
name is Love, would arouse guilty souls to an overwhelming 
sense of their lost state, and then leave them so, until they 
become stark, staring mad. No, no ! The ministers have 
made the fires, and they must tend them. They always 
build too many ; and so, at the end of nearly every revival, 
some wretched dupe is sent to the insane hospital. Why, 
look at the reports given by the officers of these institutions, 
and see how many are there because ministers practised upon 
their fears until there was no earthly power to allay them, 
and the poor creatures did not know where to turn from their 
torturer, and find their pitying God. It was a fearful time in 
Boston, about the year 1839. A fanatic, named Miller, had 
turned the heads of hundreds of thousands. The ministers 
thought that they would mend the matter by building a great 
number of fires. There was a great outpouring of their 
spirit. I happened then to have much to do, in business 
matters, with Protestants. Why, in almost every house I 
entered, they were talking about mad people in it, or in the 
house of some friend. The distressed state of such a one, 
who was sorely exercised^ that is, driven crazy, was the com* 
mon theme of conversation. One young girl ran through the 
streets at noon, in her night clothes, crying that the devil was 
after her. Then the wheel stopped, and Protestant religion 
ceased to be revived ; it was laid in the grave, until more 
15 


170 


fires would be kindled. Ts it not preposterous that such peo- 
ple should talk to us about a human church ? 

Whether some of these people get any thing like religion, 
is a question I will not touch now. A few grow better — no 
doubt of it. Get a thief, a drunkard, a libertine, a blasphemer 
to think seriously about his soul, and it is not wonderful that 
he should resolve to amend. Hell is full of souls who made 
many good resolutions in. their lifetime. Neither is it I'ery 
strange if he really does become better. Not because he 
went to your meetings, though. You can get a man to think 
in his house, in his shop, in the street. The only conceivable 
advantage the meeting-house has over these places is, that 
there you hold him by the button ; you have him in a corner, 
among a crowd of sober, and sometimes 5owr, looking people, 
who will talk about him if he laughs, or whispers, or takes 
his hat and goes out. When you call your house a holy 
place, you labor under a hallucination. 

The grace of God has ordinary.and extraordinary channels. 
The ordinary ones are the sacraments. Extraordinary ones 
are not easy to enumerate, precisely because they are extraor- 
dinary. It may come in the shape of a good word spoken, 
or a good thought conceived in the street, or in a house, be it 
a meeting or a dwelling house. The blind man saw because 
Jesus happened to pass by. The thief gained paradise be- 
cause he happened to be led to death in company with Je$us. 
Genes, the actor, was converted in the theatre, while he was 
actually receiving a mock baptism. When these things hap- 
pen, it is while the Spirit moves as he lists ; you know not 
whence he comes, or whither he goes. Our chance of salva- 
tion would be small, if we had to depend only upon grace, 
received through extraordinary channels. If you ascend to 
the top of a house, your ordinary means of descent is the lad- 
der by which you mounted. If you kick the ladder away, 
and wait until some one takes you down, you are a great fool. 
When our Lord was on the pinnacle of the temple, the devil 
told him to adopt extraordinary means of getting down — to 
jump. Of course, if he had jumped, he would have reached the 
ground safely. But he would do no such thing. Protestants 
who reject all the ordinary means of salvation, and rely solely 
upon extraordinary ones, ought to weigh well the answer of our 
Savior to the devil — Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God. 

One consideration will show how a certain piety may pos- 
sibly exist in a Protestant soul. Protestantism cannot give him 


171 


the means of getting it ; that is clear enough. He gets it, if 
he has it at all, because there is a One and Catholic Church of 
God. A man with his eyes open at noonday can read, although 
he says that there is no such thing as the sun. If there were 
no God, there would be no object of geometry, says St. 
Thomas ; and yet an atheist can be a good geometer. A 
Protestant can read the Bible, although he never understands 
it. If he were humble, he would say with the eunuch of the 
Acts, How can I understand it, unless some one tell me 
what it means ? Well, every body knows that if there were 
no Catholic Church, there would be no Bible. Only she ever 
could, or ever can, say what books are inspired. So the exist- 
ence of the Church on earth makes it possible for grace to 
flow through both channels. It is the grace of her invisible 
Head ; it flows through her ; and while it is a sun that shines 
upon her children gathered together under the arch of heaven, 
a ray or two can penetrate the chinks and openings of a 
bolted and barred house, even if it he a meeting-house. 

Here, then, is the reason why ministers can huild fires, but 
cannot tend them. They trust wholly to the grace which 
comes through extraordinary channels, and they blaspheme the 
ordinary ones, although Christ ordained that men who would 
be saved must be saved by these. The use of them is the 
general rule. Protestants cling to the exception until they 
go mad' in waiting for it to occur. Extraordinary grace, as 
Protestants understand it, is an absurdity. It is a grace 
which will save one who lives and dies a disobedient child. 
For they expect, or pretend to expect, to be saved without the 
sacraments — without the Church. But in vain. “ If a man 
have not the Church as his mother, he cannot have God for 
his father.” When God has instituted certain means for sal- 
vation, it is madness to expect to be saved while despising 
them. Extraordinary gra«e, bestowed upon one who is in the 
Church, is intelligible enough. Bestowed upon an infidel or 
a heretic who has lived up to received lights, who never heard 
of the Church, and who is ready to own her as soon as she 
claims his obedience, it is also intelligible. For to such a 
man, if he ever lived, extraordinary grace is simply a rneans 
whereby he may receive ordinary graces. A Catholic is the 
subject of extraordinary grace, because he receives the sacra- 
ments. If others are, it is that they may receive the sacra- 
ments. But a Protestant who desires to be saved while he is 
determined to reject the Church, and with her all ordinary, and, 


172 


practically, all means of salvation, is blind. As if pride were a 
passport to heaven ! It is true^ it is God’s truth, and taught by 
the church to us all, that Christ is able and willing to save. The 
Church never tires in telling us about the prodigal son and 
the stray lamb. She tells us that Christ died for all; that one 
drop of His blood would save millions of worlds ; that we can 
only be saved in His name, and through His blood. She tells 
us that there is no sin so great as despair of His mercy ; 
because it is tantamount to saying that even He cannot redeem 
sin, not even with the precious blood of His heart. 1 know 
that Protestants, even intelligent ones, would be very much 
astonished if they thought that the Catholic Church teaches 
these^ and similar things. But let that pass. I can testify, 
from certain knowledge, that they are as hopelessly ignorant 
of what the Church really is, as common people are about the 
laws by which the motions of the heavenly bodies are gov- 
erned. They talk about our being hoodwinked by the priests. 
God forgive them ! To use a common expression, the boot 
is on the other leg. I make this offer, and I am willing to 
abide by it : If I cannot prove to an honest jury, that not we, 
but /Aey, are led by the nose, just as they say we are, I will go to 
their meetings again ; I will offer to go out as a missionary to the 
Sandwich Islands, especially if I can get a fat office, and a great 
salary, as the godly missionaries there are getting. But, as I 
said before, let that pass. Judicial blindness can be cured 
only by God. 

It is 'true, then, that Christ is our only salvation. But what 
good will it do you that He shed his blood for you, if you will 
not allow it to be applied in the way He appointed ; if you 
insist upon having it applied in your own way } You will run 
the risk of getting no good whatever from it. Suppose I owe 
a hundred dollars, and I have no means of payment. I am 
being conducted to prison, when a rich man steps forward, and 
tells me that he will pay my debt. But, he tells me to go to 
his steward^ and ask in his name for the money, telling the 
steward just how I am situated. Well, I hate this steward too 
much to go near him and get the money. Whereas he is a 
good, honest, and fine-looking old gentleman, I am possessed 
with the notion that he is a sour, swindling, hateful old cur- 
mudgeon, whom it would be a charity to hang. I never saw 
him, but my cronies have given him this character. So I tell 
my benefactor that I am much obliged to him, but I will not 
go near his steward. If it is the same to him, I would rather 


173 


have him put his hand in his pocket, and hand me the money 
then and there. He turns his back upon me, more in sorrow 
than in anger, and I am thrust into* jail. 

Dearly beloved heretics, alas, alas, that this should be a 
true picture ! that you should be this ungrateful debtor ! 
Why, there is the money offered to him freely : it will save 
him from prison ; but what good will it do him, if he does 
not apply for it in the way he was ordered to do } What do 
you think of him ? You say that he was a blind fool ; but, 
dearly-beloved blind men and women, don’t judge yourselves 
too harshly. More, far more, than the rich man would do for 
the debtor, Christ offers to do for us all. The Church is his 
appointed steward. If you will not go to her, because your 
teachers have told you naughty stories about her, there is 
great danger that you will go to prison. 

There is no likelihood that religious insanity, or any of the 
maladies I have been describing, will afflict Catholics much. 
There are the churches always open ; there is the daily sacri- 
fice ; there are the sacraments ready for all comers, at all 
times and seasons. There is no sin that cannot be washed 
away. There is no misery that cannot be lightened. Not 
even human misery, for .the Great Physician has a balm also 
for that. The minister of the Church of God never kindles 
fires, or tends them. That is the work of divine grace, flow- 
ing from the heart of Christ, and through the sacraments. 
All that the priest does is to bring wood, and see that no 
visible enemy comes and throws water on the fire. And do 
you want to know why he can do this successfully when the 
preacher cannot } Because he was sent to do it by the only 
One who has a right to send. He goes in at the gate ; the 
other climbs over the fence, and gets in at the window. 

I didn’t mean to say so much about this, but I felt interested 
in it. We Catholics cannot learn to distrust ourselves, and 
to trust the sacraments, too much. We are too prone to 
underrate their practical importance. We cannot live with- 
out them, either for heaven or for earth. No great danger 
can befall our soul, if we attend to them properly. I believe 
that Catholics would not suffer half the earthly troubles many 
of them do, if they frequented the altar. It is so preposterous 
to labor for our daily bread, without getting God’s blessing 
upon our labor. It is so idle to build a house, perhaps within 
a stone’s throw of the altar and the tabernacle, without coming 
'n often to remind our Lord, that unless He build the house, 
15 * 


174 


in vain do we labor who build it. And, mind you, I do not 
call the man who goes only once a year one who attends to 
his duty. He harely saves his soul f^rom excommunication, 
and his body from the burial of a heathen. Lord bless your 
soul, why did our Lord give his flesh in the form of hrtad ? 
That we might ask for it, every day. It is almost a pity that 
spiritual starvation does not cause fain^ as the other hunger 
will. Christians would not die of it so often. Hundreds die 
of it every day. 

Bishop Fenwick came to Hartford that summer, for the 
first time. There were about twenty-five persons confirmed, 
and I was one of them. Sixteen of these were converts — a 
great thing for Connecticut, where the Church was in its 
infancy. But God blesses the labor of a true apostle ; and 
such was Father Fitton. Thousands and thousands in these 
regions enjoy some blessing that makes them thank God that 
He raised up this good man, and sent .him into the vineyard 
that was so much in need of men like him. 

The church was dedicated to the Holy Trinity. It was a 
neat wooden building, and it formerly belonged to the Epis- 
copalians. But these were a wealthy congregation, and they 
wanted a better meeting-house. Sq they built a very hand- 
some stone church, only it wanted a steeple ; for their money 
was gone. I don’t know whether it is finished now. They 
sold the old house to the Catholics, who bad begun to con- 
gregate in the- city. But we were a small body ; we did not 
half fill the church. We were very unfashionable ; in fact, 
the good people were afraid of us, and few liked to pass our 
church after dark. Good souls peered curiously and fear- 
fully at the priest’s boots, his head, and his coat tail, to see 
if there were a sign of a hoof, a tail, or a horn. I was an 
altar boy, and I was often reminded of it in the street. I 
was walking through Main Street, one day, with a companion, 
also an altar boy. A young girl was leading two smaller 
ones by the hand. As soon as she saw us, she gathered them 
together against the wall, and shrank aside to let us pass, as 
you or I would the devil. Don’t go near those boys, she 
screamed, ’cause they’re saints ! The boys would often 
follow me, calling me Papist, and such names. I was only 
thankful that they did not throw stones. I came pretty near 
it once, by quoting to them a scrap of John Bunyan. I turned 
to them, and said that Hartford was Vanity Fair, and I was 
Peace trying to get through quietly. One of the most common 


175 


names I got in the streets was apostle ; for among the other 
crazy notions of the Protestants, they have got it into their 
heads that the altar boys are apostles. Well, they can’t help 
it. They know no better. 

And so the grown-up people, who ought to have been 
ashamed of themselves, plagued me when I went into their 
houses and shops. One man asked me what St. Patrick did 
with the snakes when he drove them out of Ireland. I told 
him that he sent them to Hartford, where they grew up 
Protestants. This was a saucy answer, but it was a silly 
question. No doubt that a fool ought to be answered accord- 
ing to his folly ; but when the fool is a man, it is better for a 
hoy to say nothing. Besides, he may get cuffed, as I would 
have been, if I had not taken to my heels. 

I was in a house full of women one day, and, before 
they let me go, I had to recall to mind all I had learned in 
the Catechism. They were very curious to know why the 
priests did not have wives. I said if they did, the women 
would get all the secrets of the confessional, and then go and 
trumpet them over the town. One of them used very bad 
language about the Blessed Sacrament. Finally, she asked 
me if the priest would consecrate and eat a host made by 
lier, and mjxed with poison. I told her I had no doubt that 
he would. This was not a correct answer, but I had no better 
one to give them. I had read in the Life of St. Francis 
Xavier, and I have since read, well- proved cases of this nature. 
It certainly has happened that the host or the chalice con- 
tained poison, and no harm came to the celebrant after com- 
munion. But if I were a priest, I should be afraid to do so, 
because it is not necessary, and because the rubrics tell what 
ought to be done in similar contingencies. It is never safe 
to tempt God. I have no doubt that the saints who did it 
acted from a motive stronger than a mere reliance on God’s 
power and goodness. One of them really expected to die, 
although erroneously. I have no doubt, too, that a priest, who 
is a priest, would in some way be told what to do in a doubtful 
case of the sort, and obedience would not bring him harm. 
The real answer to such a question would be, that the bread 
really becomes the body of Christ. But when Christ insti- 
tuted the sacrament, he took bread and wine, and nothing 
else. These are the only materials which can be used. No 
other substance but that of the bread and of the wine is 
changed. If any other substance be mixed with these, it 


176 


remains as it was. So if the priest knows that there is any 
other substance there, he consecrates and partakes at his own 
peril. If Christ had taken other substances besides bread and 
wine, they would be used by the Church. If he had taken a 
poisonous substance, — which is a monstrous supposition, but 
which has been made by Protestants, — and had told his 
priests to do likewise, why, there is no doubt that they would 
not be hurt. . It is always safe to obey Him ; it is often 
unsafe to consult our fancies in things where his will is not 
known. If poison were given to the priest without his knowl- 
edge, and if he really he a priest, he may escape by a miracle. 
But if I were one, I would not like to have the experiment 
tried upon me. 

Our church caught fire one day. The fire began in a 
barn, which was a hundred feet or so from the church. But 
the wind blew in our direction, and one corner of the building 
was already in flames. It was a dry, wooden house, and 
there was only one chance, which was, that the wind might 
change. It was not very likely to happen ; but it did^ for all 
that, and just at the right moment. Five minutes more would 
have made any change quite immaterial. So the fire was 
easily subdued. There was a great crowd there, and many 
of the -people were very glad to see that the church would 
surely burn, and very sorry that the wind shifted when it did. 
I heard one man say that it was a burning shame, to see the 

d old church standing, and the poor man’s barn burning. 

The poor man was Ellsworth, member of Congress, and since 
governor of the state. He could aflbrd to lose a barn better 
than we could a church. 

The Hartford mission, in 1832, was a very small one. 
There was no other church in the state. In New Haven 
there were a few Catholics, but they had to meet in a poor 
place. There were very few stations in the whole mission. 
In Springfield, and in a few other towns, there were a hand- 
ful, scattered quite sparsely. In Northampton a number of 
Irishmen were digging a canal, and they had an occasional 
mass. But there was no room in the inn, or any where else. 
No matter ; the sky is a good roof, the grass is a good floor, 
and an old elm-tree is a good shelter ; let us have mass under 
its shade. And so we did. 

Railroads were not then in fashion. They have done a 
good work in Massachusetts. The projectors meant to make 
money in the first place, and to accommodate travellers in 


177 


the next. They have not always succeeded. But they have 
done a thing which was not included in their plan — they 
have left Irish Catholics in every village ; they have dropped 
them, like seeds, all along the road ; and, crosier of St. 
Patrick, how the seeds have become trees ! You find a cluster 
of them in every town. In villages where an Irish Catholic 
was thought twenty years ago to be a curiosity worth travelling 
five miles to see, you will find that they make, in some 
instances, one third of the population. At their rate of in- 
crease, they will soon be a majority. Their churches begin 
to cover the land ; by and by you will travel from one end 
of Massachusetts to the other, without losing sight of the 
cross. Well, our Lord can always make the devices of man 
so many instruments in bringing about His own designs upon 
earth. Here were the villages to be filled with Catholics. A 
hundred years would scarcely do it, under the old state of 
things ; but the iron horse has done it in less than twenty. God 
is great ! 

There was a Catholic paper published in Hartford. The 
Lord knows how it was started in such a nest of hornets, and 
how it lived two years ! I don’t. It did live, though, and it 
was a thorn in the side and a ring in the nose of the blue 
lights there. It took them a great while to get over their 
fright when it first appeared. I was employed in the office, 
and, for some time, it seemed to me that the trade was just 
the thing. It wasn’t, though. As a roller boy, I didn’t dis- 
tribute, and there were lots of monks; I didn’t roll, and there 
were sheets of friars. As a compositor, I didn’t set up 
matter cleanly ; and, to make the matter worse, I distributed 
foully. Then I could see that 4000 ems would always be 
the extent of a day’s performance, which would not bring 
more than a dollar, at good prices. Any printer can under- 
stand that I would be a nuisance in an office. At all events, 
two years’ experience taught me that I would not get a good 
living at it ; so I tried something else. I always liked the 
trade, though, and I was sorry to leave it. My last appear- 
ance in a printing office was in the character of a nuisance 
An open confession is good for the soul, they say. It was in 
the Pilot office, a great many years ago. I had not seen or 
touched any type for a great while, and I went to the galley, 
where the matter was placed. There was a stickful, or so, 
of matter standing by itself ; and the whim seized me to lift 


178 


it without any rule — a thing I had often done before. I raised 
it ; but in putting it down, it went into pL 

You had better clear out before Donahoe comes, said the 
office boy, or you will catch it. 

I thought so, too, and I resolved never to touch any matter 
again. If this story happens to be published, the profits ac- 
cruing from it may repair the damage. 

The foreman of the office was a genius. I don’t know 
that genuises are uncommon in a printing office, though. My 
experience inclines me to think that they are not. Whether 
they find their w'ay there naturally, or whether the air of the 
place is peculiarly favorable to their growth, I cannot tell. 

Mr. Yates was not a man, neither was he a boy. He was 
one of those individuals who can act either character, at a 
minute’s warning. I am inclined to think that Nature never 
made up her mind precisely what to do with him, and so 
waited to see into what he would develop himself. He 
would finish a scolding with a comic song, and end with a 
flogging what was begun with a hornpipe. You never knew 
where to have him, he would change so suddenly. Withal 
he was a kind-hearted man, and always meant to do well by 
himself and others. He would neglect his own business to 
do a good deed to one who needed it. He did all that he 
could to make a printer of me, and I have said to what pur- 
pose. I am as much obliged to him, though, as if he had 
succeeded. 

We were three boys in the office ; four when Mr. Yates 
was a boy. We sometimes took a little sleep for an hour or 
so, when it was necesary to work very late, which seldom 
happened. One evening we were stretched upon a pile of 
papers, and one of the sleepers snored loudly. The other 
got the paste pot, and gave him a thick coat upon his face, 
without wakening him. He began soon to whistle like a 
snipe, for the paste dried and obstructed his breathing. It 
was Mr. Yates. When he avvoke, we were at work ; but he 
heard enough to let him know who was the offender. He 
never failed to return jokes of this kind with interest. So he 
put a little powder in a paper, and after twisting it, went to 
the boy’s case, as if to light his lamp ; and when the paper 
was lighted, he held it, in an abstracted mood, near the boy’s 
face. The flash came, and he was revenged ; the boy’s eye- 
brows were singed. 

I bought a phial of sulphuric acid one day, and put it into 


179 


my pocket, and forgot all about it. When I returned to the 
office, the foreman was fiddling, and the boys were cutting 
sundry capers which they called dancing. I joined the sport. 
But there was only a cork in the phial, and, of course, the acid 
slowly destroyed it. When the cork was consumed, the acid 
lost no time in trying whether my flesh would burn. I only 
know what followed from the report of others. I seized the 
phial, and dashed it to the floor. The glass broke, and the 
acid flew in spatters upon the fiddle and the fiddler’s face. 
The fiddle didn’t feel it, but he did ; so he ran into the kitchen, 
crying fire. The boys scattered ; one jumped out at the open 
window, the others escaped by the door, and at the foot of 
the street stopped to see where they were bitten. I had 
divested myself of my clothes, in the mean time, yelling fire. 
The women rushed into the office with buckets of water ; and, 
as if they comprehended the case, they tried to put me out. 
In a few minutes I had procured oil, for water only made the 
matter worse, and all hands returned to count the killed and 
wounded. The next time I tried an experiment with sulphuric 
acid I got a glass stopper, and I neglected to put the phial in 
my pocket. 

I was never afraid of ghosts. I never heard stories about 
them at home ; and, after my father died, I was never prac- 
tised upon by tellers of fearful stories. I had always been 
used to going, to bed without a candle, and it was never a 
trouble to me to go about, in or out of the house, after dark. 
I have crossed the Common alone, and on dark nights, several 
times before I was eight years old. I would not like so well 
to do it now, for the place is haunted by worse than ghosts. 
The last time I did it before I was an orphan, I passed by 
the Medical College, in Mason Street. It was about nine 
o’clock. Two or three students tried to get me to go in with 
them ; and they were going to pull me in, when I began to 
scream, and they let me go. I suppose they only wanted to 
frighten me. They had frightened a neighbor of ours, not 
long before, almost out of his wits. They had persuaded 
him to go in, and, when he opened a door at their request, a 
skeleton embraced him. The machinery was well contrived 
to produce this effect. They showed him death under so 
many forms, that he did nothing but dream of raw heads and 
bloody bones for a month afterwards. 

My companions in the office tried hard to shake my indif- 
ference with regard to ghosts, but at first I laughed at them 


180 


They would not have made any impression upon me, had it 
not been for a trial and execution that took place in the office. 
There was no cellar under it, but there was room for a man 
to crawl, and that was just the thing for cats. So a commu- 
nity of them settled there, and their symphonies hurt our 
feelings. Mr. Yates managed to catch two of them, and, 
after an affecting speech, during the delivery of which he 
wore an old black cap belonging to the priest, he sentenced 
them to die, when they were hung. The rest of the cats took 
the hint, and went to parts unknown. Now, my conscience 
smote me for the part I had in the business, the more so as 
the creatures clung to life so tenaciously. So the discourse 
turned that night upon ghosts, and, for the first time, I felt 
nervous. Nothing was talked of but ghosts for a week, and 
I became quite afraid of my shadow. But this foolish fear 
soon passed away ; my early education had laid an enduring 
groundwork in that, as in some other things. As a general 
thing, I am not troubled with these silly terrors. But, once in 
a great while, I feel the effects of that week’s talk about 
ghosts. At rare intervals, the same nervousness will return, 
and go away as unaccountably as it came. 

The paper stopped in Hartford, and, shortly after, I returned 
to Boston. I was sorry to leave Hartford, for it was a pretty 
place. It was so clean and so quiet. The streets looked as 
if they were washed every Saturday. There was not business 
enbugh done in the town to make it dirty. You could not 
hear any thing stirring from Saturday night to Monday morn- 
ing, but the people going to and from meeting. They were 
puritanical observers of the Sabbath. A Protestant would be 
sorely puzzled to justify this observance. It is odd how they 
show such a decided preference for the word Sabbath, which 
is Saturday. They ought to keep the Saturday, the Sabbath, 
holy, according to their own principles. They pretend to 
consider the Bible as the only rule of faith. Well, the Bible 
contains a commandment to keep Saturday holy. It is the 
Sabbath, the seventh day of the week. Now, when a supe- 
rior makes a law, no one inferior to him can abrogate it. 
Only God could excuse us from keeping that commandment. 
Well, it does not any where in the- Bible appear that he has 
excused us from keeping the seventh day holy. No where 
in the Bible has he abrogated that solemn commandment ! 
Protestants bring forward six texts to show that we can keep 
the first day holy ; but then this is not the only silly thing they 


181 


do. No one of those texts excuses them, any more, than it 
excuses them from keeping the eighth commandment, which 
forbids us to bear false witness against our neighbor, even if 
he he a Catholic. The fact is, if we get our religion only 
from the Bible, we are all guilty of breaking this command- 
ment. God has commanded us to keep holy the seventh day. 
Nowhere in the Bible has He abrogated this law. The Prot- 
testants care nothing about that ; they work on Saturday, and 
keep the first day of the- week, Sunday. It is a lamenta- 
ble fact, but it is true, that Protestants are a set of Sabbath- 
breakers — systematic, hardened Sabbath -breakers. Tell them 
to put that in their pipes when they scold you for break- 
ing the Sabbath, Saturday, the seventh day, because you have 
wickedly gone to a bakehouse to get your pork and beans on 
Sunday, the first day of the week. Fix it the best way you 
will, but when they begin to talk about religion, they always 
make laughable work of it. 

It was about this time that there was a great noise made 
concerning the law against travelling on Sundays. No man 
could travel on that day for any purpose. It was the especial 
duty of deacons to see that the law was observed, and the 
deacons watched the roads right zealously ; for they were 
generally tavern-keepers, and the money of an unfortunate 
Sunday traveller was as good as that of any other man. 
Some shrewd Yankees would sometimes outdo them, though. 
Deacon Barebones would stop the traveller, and bring him 
into his tavern, telling him that he must not travel, and he 
might stop at that house. On Monday morning, the traveller 
thanks Deacon Barebones for his hospitality, and invites him 
to come and see him and his folks when he is passing that 
way ; and then the sly dog moves on. The deacon stops him, 
and hands the bill. But, deacon, didn’t you make me stop 
yesterday against my will Didn’t you take me to your house 
when I wanted to go on That’s nothing. I get my living by 

'taking in travellers, and . That’s a fact, deacon ; never 

spoke a truer word in your life. And he gives his horse a 
cut that makes him start in a hurry, while the deacon barely 
saves his bones by jumping quickly aside. 

Not only must people keep Saturday holy by not travelling 
on Sunday, but they must also go to meeting. There are 
men yet living who can remember when this law was enforced 
in some parts of Connecticut. It is true that houses were 
not commonly searched ; but the man who was seen walking 
16 


182 


under circumstances which seemed to prove that he didn’t 
mean to hear any preaching that day, was stopped, and told 
that he must go to meeting or go to jail. Some will remember 
the story of the Frenchman in Hartford, years and years ago. 

Stop, friend. 'You must go to meeting. 

But I not want to go to meeting, sare. 

Well, you’ll have to go to jail. 

Then me go to meeting, sare. 

And he is led to execution, — I mean to a pew where 
he has to sit while the preacher talks three mortal hours. 
The poor victim stares, shrugs, makes faces, winks, nods, and 
finally goes comfortably to sleep, where he meets half the 
congregation, who think, and talk, and behave like raving and 
distracted ganders, while the preacher is bellowing at what 
they left in their places on the benches. 

A few Sundays after, same deacon meets same French- 
man under same circumstances. 

Stop, friend. You must go to meeting. 

Me not want to go to meeting. 

Then you must go to jail. 

Me go to jail. 

About the time I left Hartford, this fanatical law was recon- 
sidered. A man was travelling post haste to see his dying 
father. Sunday found him in Connecticut, and a certain dea- 
con, Eliphalet Valiantforthetruth, stopped him. The poor man 
told his errand, and begged to be allowed free passage through 
the town ; but the deacon would hear nothing. The next 
day the traveller pursued his journey, and found his father’s 
corpse. He was late only by a few hours. The man returned 
to Connecticut, and prosecuted the deacon. The result was 
a revision of the law. 

While 1 was in Hartford, 1 received several letters from 
Mr. Croan, telling me how matters were going on in Boston. 
I wrote occasionally ; and some time before I went home, I 
told him I was coming, and begged him to see if he could 
find a place for me. So he was not surprised when I entered 
his house, after my arrival at Boston. He was glad to see 
me, and he made me glad by telling me that Mary was com- 
ing to see him that very afternoon, and that he had got a 
situation for me. I found that his circumstances were con- 
siderably altered. His sister had married again, and so had 
he. His wife was a good old maid, who had saved her 
money ; and, as his health was very good, and his work had 


183 


been steady, he had managed to open a little shop in front 
of their lodgings, where he was doing a snug little business. 1 
had a great many questions to ask, and a great many things 
to tell. Mary Riley came in before I was done, and then I 
was mute. 

^ You need not wonder at it. I was fourteen years old ; and, 
of course, I began to think that by and by I would be a man. 
I remembered how we had loved one another when we were 
little children — how she was so open and so affectionate in 
her ways ; and while I sadly wanted her to treat me with the 
innocent freedom of other days, I would have blamed her in 
my own mind, if she had done so. I was a great, awkward 
boy, and not very good looking, either. She was thirteen, and 
she was as pretty as flesh and blood could be at that age. 
If I dared, I would have enacted a hundred extravagancies in 
her presence. I did, as soon I was alone. But in her pres- 
ence I blushed and stammered, and behaved like a simpleton, 
as no doubt I was. She was a little embarrassed, I thought ; but 
she was as kind as ever. She told me that she was going to 
leave school soon, and give her time to music and drawing. 
She 'asked me if I had destroyed her picture. I took it, with 
the cross, from my bosom, and demanded whether she could 
give as good an account of the medal. She produced it 
instantly. When she went away, I became conscious of a 
new feeling, that never left me, until she changed her name 
for mine. That was a knowledge that she was too good for 
me, and a fear that I would lose her. 

Mr. Groan told me that he had engaged a place for me in 
a printing office. I was not displeased to hear this, but I 
would have tried some other trade, if it were possible. I had 
by this time made up my mind that it was not the way my 
living was to be earned. Yet I determined to accept the offer, 
and, in the mean time, look about me for something else. My 
greatest disappointment arose from the fact that I could not 
live with Mr. Groan, for his house was too small ; and his 
business was not large enough to allow him to take an assist- 
ant. He and his wife managed every thing. So I had to 
begin my experience of those peculiar establishments, Boston 
boarding-houses. 

They are generally kept by widows, and, most commonly, 
by widows who are past marrying. It is comfortable to be 
able to say this ; for it would be a sad thing if the keeping a 
boarding-house were also one of the hundred approved 


184 


schemes for catching a feller. They are high old places 
those boarding-houses. They see more genuine fun- than 
any other houses in Boston. Sometimes married people rent 
rooms in them, but not often. The community is generally 
made up of from four to forty spinsters and bachelors. The 
young men and maids do all they can not to drag out a mis- 
erable existence, and they commonly succeed. Ask a hearty 
eater what he thinks of these houses, and he will say that 
you’ll get meat in the morning, and jmcid'^n every day. That 
is his Elysium. Get into a boarding-house by all means, a 
man-boy who has just shed his jacket, and put on his first 
coat, will say. Lots o’ fun ! oceans o’ gals ! Get out of a 
boarding-house, a studious youth will cry. I can’t get a 
minute’s peace any where. If I get into a quiet corner to 
read, somebody always comes and blows out my light. There 
is no better place in the world for studying character, ex- 
claims one who is serving his apprenticeship at hair-cutting 
and metaphysics. There is no worse place for losing your 
character, exclaims a weak Catholic. There is meat in every 
thing on Fridays, and you can’t say your prayers without 
being laughed at by every body. . 

Well, I went into one of them. The widow was a member 
of the Methodist church, in regular standing, and she used to 
have prayer meetings in the house every month. I never 
went to them, although I received many pressing invitations 
to do so. In fact, the old lady’s second question after I en- 
tered the house was^ What meeting do you attend? When 
I told her that I went to no meeting, but to the Catholic 
diurch, she drew back a step, and looked at me as if I were 
a catamount going to bite her. I had become used to such 
things ; and now they only gave me amusement. I was 
prayed for at every gathering around the family altar ; and 
sometimes they made so much noise about it, that I concluded 
their God was in the same predicament with the god of the 
priests of Baal, who was deaf, or on a jeurney, or was asleep, 
and had to be awakened. They seemed to think so too, very 
often, for they would do as Elias told the priests to do ; they 
would call louder and louder, until they would scream at the 
top of their voices ; when all quiet people, who had to stay in 
the house, would stuff cotton into their ears, and they who 
were at liberty would take to their heels. These scenes are 
witnessed among the Methodists on a greater scale at their 
general prayer meetings' and, above all, at that species of re- 


185 


vival agitation known as a camp-meeting. These gatherings, 
and hissing hot revivals in general, ought to be forbidden by 
law, or else the state should defray half the expenses of mad 
houses by a particular tax, laid on ministers ; so that if they 
kindle more fires than they can tend, they will be responsible 
for the damages that ensue. The scenes that often are 
witnessed at these camp-meetings beggar description. The 
stage manager locks all the doors of the theatre first, so that 
no one can escape. Then he draws the curtain, and shows 
them the tortures of the damned, and the devils digging a 
place for “ my dear people ” in the hottest depths of hell. 
The sensitive portion of the hearei*s are lashed into a state 
of uncontrollable excitement ; and the more sensitive are in 
the greatest need of comfort, of course. But these are the 
young women. It is quite a coincidence, that the sinners 
who need consolation most are precisely those to whom it is 
very pleasant to administer comfort. Whether this is one 
secret of the frequency of these detestable exhibitions, is a 
question which I would rather refer to a jury of young Meth- 
odist ministers. Perhaps it would be better to submit it to a 
jury of their wives. One thing is certain ; the system adopted 
by John Wesley, better than any other Protestant system, is 
fitted to get out of Protestantism every thing it can give to- 
wards making people behave well. It is the extreme oppo- 
site to homoeopathic or liberal Christianity. The Unitarian 
makes his appeal to the man^ rational and animal, and tries 
to make him do well because it is gentlemanly to do so. The 
Methodist stirs up the whole animal^ and tries to make him 
be good on the same grounds that urge a persecuted dog, 
that has a kettle fastened to his tail, to try to leap a very high 
fence, and escape from boys who are pelting him with stones ; 
or that urge the same animal, when he is tied to a post, and 
nearly starved, to snap greedily at a bone that is held just 
beyond his reach. It is well that there are so many sects of 
heretics, who push heresy to its veiy extremes, in every pos- 
sible direction, because it will die all the sooner. The Uni- 
tarians have made it end in atheism. So atheism is the 
fashionable religion in Boston. The Methodists are coming 
to the same conclusion, from other premises. The bow that 
is always bent will be good for nothing, after a while. Forty 
years ago, a Methodist paper, like the Olive Branch, would 
have been simply impossible. Now, it is a fixed fact. 

I have some dear friends among the Methodists, and I be 

16 * 


186 


lieve that many of them need only one thing to make them 
bright ornaments of any Christian community. But that is 
just the one thing needful. It is that faith, without which it 
IS IMPOSSIBLE TO PLEASE GoD. Millions and millions do not 
please God with it, but no one can please Him without it. In 
the matter of merely human virtues, even homoeopathic Chris- 
tians put us to shame. It is a deplorable proof of man’s 
wickedness. All Christians, whether Catholics or heretics, 
often and often see the Turks practising virtues that would 
be heroic if they were Christians, while we make the Turks 
wonder at our impiety. Open any Missionary Herald, and 
you will read complaints coming from the preachers, to the 
effect that bad Christians prevent, by their wicked example, 
much good that might be done to the heathen. The Sand- 
wich Islands have had the gospel preached to them ; and the 
•peculiar diseases of civilized whites have nearly ruined the 
islanders. Missionaries, rum, and licentious men are landed 
from the same ship ; they spread the religion and the vices 
of the whites among the poor pagans ; and where the mis- 
sionary gains one subject, the others win hundreds. 

The office in which I worked was a Methodist office, which 
published a paper called the Jerusalem Tooter. I had enough 
of the business in a few months, and I succeeded in changing 
my trade, although not for the better. I had fully made up 
my mind that it would not do for me to hang about in a print- 
ing office any longer, because it was not suited to me, nor 1 
to it. Besides, I did not like the air of this Methodist office. 
I know that a candle ought not to be hidden under a bushel. 
But it ought not to be shown by sound of trumpet, either. I 
could never see in Methodism any provision made for private 
devotion. All was to be done before witnesses. Christians 
were to be drilled in regiments, in companies, in sections, 
and in files. Our Lord’s directions about anointing the head, 
and washing the face, seemed to be utterly unknown. You 
would always know whether a Christian of this sort lived, 
not only in the same house with you, but in the same street. 

I got rid of the office, and of the trade, in less than four 
months. I changed my boarding-place at the same time. I 
tried to be a fancy painter, and the next chapter will tell with 
what success. 


187 


CHAPTER VII. 

JOHN FINDS THAT HE HAS TRIED EVERY TRADE BUT THE PAINT» 
ER’s. HE GETS INTO A BOSTON BOARDING-HOUSE. NARROW- 

LY ESCAPES A METHODIST SNARE, AND GETS INTO A BAPTIST 
NET. HE AND HIS MASTER TRY TO CONVERT ONE ANOTHER. 

My new master was a serious Christian of the Baptist sect, 
and his name was Bowen. I remained with him more than 
three years, for it required that length of time to prove to me 
that Nature never meant me to be a painter. I used to won- 
der what she did make me for. 1 had tried several ways of 
living, and, although I had really exerted myself to learn‘my 
business, I had never succeeded. I could grind paint pretty 
well. So could I lay groundwork. But when it came to 
copying figures, or tracing lines, I could do nothing. My 
master was a conscientious man, and he tried to make me 
learn, but in vain. I would do my best in drawing lines, but 
he would say that a worm had better be dipped in coloring, 
and then be allowed to wriggle across the board. As for my 
figures, they would disgrace a Hottentot artist, he said. 
Well, I went on, hoping against hope, for three years. I 
waited for some lucky inspiration, for some good genius who 
would come and give my brains a twist in the right direction ; 
but nobody came. 

The second or third question my new boarding-house mis- 
tress put to me was, Where do you go to meeting ? She was 
a Baptist. She was very much moved when I told her what 
my religion was. She told me afterwards, that when she 
heard that^ she seriously thought of sending me away. She 
had never had a Catholic in her house before, and she did 
not know what dreadful things one might do. I could see 
that, for several days, she watched me as suspiciously as one 
would a person who was undeniably behaving tolerably well, 
but who had the mischief in him, which would come out in 
some way at a moment when least expected ; and that it was 
a duty to keep a strict lookout. Nobody could tell what 
might happen. I might run away with the spoons. I might 
Bet the house on fire. I might have an inquisitor in the house 


188 


before any one knew it. But the good old lady gradually 
relaxed her vigilance. Nothing had happened in consequence 
of my entrance ; and really, all the harm I seemed to do was, 
to eat so many beans, and other delicacies, and go to church, 
when I might have a seat in her pew, at any time. Once or 
twice I scandalized her greatly. The wood in my room was 
gone, and it was Sunday. I went to the shed, but there was 
none spilt. I split some, and carried it up. Each time she had 
a great deal to say about the wickedness of the act. She was 
determined that the sound of the axe should not be heard 
upon her premises on the holy Sabbath. 

My master made very early inquiries about my religion ; 
and, after he knew it, he did not seem to think that he had 
done a very prudent thing to take me as his apprentice. But 
there was no help for it. I was regularly engaged, and he 
would not discharge me on that account, of course. Besides, 
I soon became attached to him, and he seemed to like me. 
He did all that he could to change my views, though. He 
thought that the Catholic Church was a very bad one ; and he 
believed that it was his duty to snatch me as a brand from the 
burning. He offered me a seat in his pew ; and I suppose that 
few things would have pleased him more than to see me oc- 
cupy it regularly. He said little to me in praise of his own 
religion, but be was unwearied in bis attacks upon mine. 
Friendly attacks they were, all of them. I mean that he was 
never out of humor ; he did it just as a man would discharge 
a serious duty. In one thing, he was unlike most Protestants. 
A Catholic, in talking with a Protestant upon religious mat- 
ters, generally labors under three or four serious difficulties. 
Sometimes the objectors are very foul-mouthed. They can- 
not speak of confession, priests, or nuns, without vomiting 
obscenities which would disgrace hogs. Their minds are 
incurably filthy, and any thing that can be twisted into their 
uncleanness is eagerly seized, and used accordingly. Just as 
all things are pure to the pure, so all things are filthy to the 
impure. This is a very great grievance to Irish servant girls. 
It often happens that they cannot attend to their duties without 
being compelled to bear from the others such nasty language, 
that a pure-souled woman would rather undergo any punish- 
ment than hear it. 

Then, in talking with a Protestant about religion, you are 
often painfully surprised at his ignorance of its first princi- 
ples. This ignorance is so plain, that the most illiterate 


189 


Catholic sees it at last, and wonders at it. If the Protestant 
confessed his blindness, as a little child or an awakened 
heathen does, there would be no great room for surprise. But 
he quotes the Bible so flippantly, and talks so much about 
religion, that you get dust thrown in your eyes. When one 
mathematician talks with another, he supposes that the other 
is not ignorant that two and two make four. When one 
grammarian talks with another, he believes that he knows 
that prepositions govern the objective case. So when a Cath- 
olic talks with a Protestant, he hears him say such good things, 
that he gives the Protestant credit for knowing infinitely more 
than he does. It required some time before I could be con- 
vinced of the fact, but hundreds of experiments have always 
made the same result evident ; and I can no longer doubt it, 
any more than I can doubt any fact which I have experienced 
a great many times. I shall never forget the surprise I felt 
when the truth began to occur to me, that all that parade of 
religious knowledge was little else than sham, a garment bor- 
rowed to cover absolute nakedness. Then I give this advice : 
Do not talk with them upon the subject at all. Because, in 
the first place, no good, and some harm, is done. You need 
not hope to convert them ; conversions never come from 
controversies ; there is too much of human pride, of the 
desire of victory on both sides; and humility is absolutely 
necessary to conversion. We must become little children, to 
get into heaven. So these disputes do some harm, because 
you often lose your temper. You sometimes hear vile, and 
always unreasonable language. It is better to avoid, also, this 
occasion of sin. But if you will talk about it, begin by giv- 
ing them no credit for any real knowledge about religious 
matters. Begin at the a, b, c, of religion ; begin where your 
children do ; begin with, Who made you > God. Before 
you move a step, teach them that Christ did found a Church, 
and that this Church must be One ; that out of it there is no 
salvation ; that who will be saved must obey the Church 
in all things. These are a few letters of the alphabet of re- 
ligion, and do not move a step before they are well learned. 
Suppose you take a boy that does not know his letters^ and 
set him to reading a book. What work will he make of it } 
Why, the book will be all Greek to him. Just so will your 
arguments be Greek to the Protestant, if you do not teach 
him his a, b, c’s. Teach them to him first, and don’t let him 
fly oflf about purgatory, the Virgin, images, priests, and all 


190 


that. No matter if he is a minister, and you are his servant. 
Teach him the a, b, c’s. He may have far more worldly 
knowledge than you have ; but in religious matters, in all that 
concerns salvation, you know far more than he does. And 
do not permit him to quote a sentence from the Bible, until 
he proves to you, from Protestant Principles, that he has a 
right to do so. Make him, on his principles^ show that it is 
the word of God. And if you really wish to avoid a perti- 
nacious Protestant talker, who will attack you, begin with re- 
quiring this proof. Resolutely refuse to say one word about 
any thing else until he has done it, and you may be sure that 
you will be at peace, even if you are together for twenty 
years. He might as well try to put on his stockings after he 
has pulled on his boots. Above all, my dear fellow, avoid an 
error into which we have nearly all of us fallen. Do not 
allow him to attack yow, because he has no right to do so. 
If he says a word about religion, do not humor him so much 
as to defend your own. Trust me, the Church can take care 
of herself, without any help from you or from me. The 
gates of hell have raged against her for eighteen hundred 
years, and all hell will rage against her to th,e end, and in 
vain. So you need not fear that one Protestant can do her 
any harm. Do not apologize for her, then, for you insult 
your Mother by supposing that she needs an apology. Do 
not soften one tittle of her doctrine, for neither she nor her 
Founder will thank you for it. We have offended her often 
in this way ; let us do so no more. We should be ashamed to 
apologize for our faith. It is mean ; it is pitiful. We are 
members of the Church of Christ, and we are citizens of a 
republic where the law makes no distinction between creeds. 
You have a perfect right to be a Catholic. Profess, then, 
every tittle of your faith in open day, and do not wound the 
heart of Christ by apologizing for His own spouse, who is 
without spot or wrinkle ; do not apologize on earth for a faith 
that will be your glory in heaven, if it shall be your lot to be 
saved. A Protestant has no right whatever to attack your 
religion. Suppose that you are living peaceably in your own 
house, and a rogue wants to get it from you. If he intrudes, 
you can kick him out of doors. If he appeals to the law, 
what is to be done before he can turn you out. Must you 
prove that the house is yours ? Do not think of it. He must 
prove that it is his. Wait until he does that, and, in the mean 
time, eat, drink, and sleep in your house. Well, do just so 


191 


with your religion. There is only one house, in religious 
matters. You and your fathers have lived safely in it for 
eighteen centuries, and it is as good as it was when it was 
new. Thousands of rogues have tried to steal it, and they 
have always failed, because they could not prove ownership. 
Well, a Protestant comes along, and says that he must have 
it. He pleads, in the first place, that your house isrCt a house ; 
and then, that it is his or partly his, and he has a right to a room 
in it ; and, finally, that he has built a house, and wants to put 
it on the very land occupied by your house. Well, what 
must you do ? Why, lock the door, and tell him to pass his 
papers through the key-hole for your examination. Don’t 
listen to him blustering that it is not your house — make him 
prove that it is his. In a word, attack his so-called religion ; 
make him prove that it is true , and, as he says that the Bible is 
the foundation of his claim, begin with his a, b, c’s ; begin at 
the beginning, and make him prove, on Protestant principles, 
that the book he is quoting really is the word of God. Don’t 
let him move an inch until he has done it, and you may be 
sure that he will never move an inch, because it is simply 
impossible for a Protestant to do any such thing. Well, if 
he cannot do that, do not let him quote the Bible, because he 
has no right in the world to do so. 

There is the way to manage, if you must talk about religion. 
It is better to pray for him than to dispute with him. But if 
you do, be sure to begin at the beginning — teach him his 
alphabet. You need not be afraid of him, even if he is a 
great master in human learning ; because, with all that, he is 
more ignorant of the true principles of religion than your little 
boy is, who has learned the first chapter of his Catechism. 
Even their ministers are no exception to this rule. It is true, 
that some of their most learned ones do know better. When 
they preach and write about the Catholics, they know ‘hat 
they break the eighth commandment. But honest ones preicr 
to say nothing about the Church. They are not prepared to 
defend her ; so they compromise the matter by saying nothing 
against her. Several do more ; they show quite a partiality 
for her ; and when they speak of her, it is seldom with di.?- 
respect. Ministers of this sort are generally Episcopalians 
or Unitarians. But the crowd of ministers are commonly as 
Ignorant of the real nature of the Church as their people aie. 
When they are boys, they hear from their companions, their 
nurses, their parents, and their ministers, all those raw-head 


192 


and bloody-bone stories about Popery that are so current, 
and form such a great part of vulgar Protestantism. When 
they go to college, they learn nothing better. They study the 
sciences ; they read histories which are falsified at every 
page ; they study a theology which builds up an imaginary 
Popish church, and they are furnished with weapons to knock 
the image down. They beat and beat the image ; thinking, 
in the precious innocence of their hearts, that it is all the time 
our Church ; and they are so busy in cutting and slashing at 
imaginary Papists, that they do not notice how the real Catho- 
lics are laughing at them. They are no better informed than 
their people are ; and if one of them attack you, do not be 
imposed upon by his display of human learning, but treat 
him like the others — teach him his a, b, c’s. If you really 
wish to know how very ignorant he is of the first principles 
of religion, try this experiment. Ask him to tell you, seri- 
ously, what his idea of our Church is. Let him talk without 
any interruption for a quarter of an hour, and you will clearly 
see that, no matter how great his scientific attainments may 
be, in religious knowledge he is a child. Ay, worse ; for he 
must unlearn many things before he can begin to learn a 
word. 

The other difficulty which a Catholic feels who talks with 
a Protestant about religion is, that the other party never 
knows when he is beaten. Now this is a great discomfort. 
It is provoking, too, when he is fairly floored., for him to get * 
up and say that he wasn’t down. This trouble comes from 
the- ignorance I spoke of just now, and from your greenness 
in supposing that he knows the first principles of religion. 
When I was a boy, this puzzled me a great deal. I would 
give arguments that I had heard, or read, and I wondered 
how it was that they never seemed to understand them. Now, 
the thing is plain enough. You cannot understand a ray of 
light, you cannot suppose that it exists, unless you suppose 
that the sun, from whom the ray comes, exists too. You may 
not be thinking of the sun, but when you see light, you have 
it all along in your mind that the sun is shining in the heavens. 
So when you are reading a book, you are not thinking about 
the letters that you learned long ago, when you were a boy, 
but you have them in your mind for all that ; and you know 
all the time that if you had not learned those letters, the book 
would be Greek to you. So in religion. You have learned 
your letters, your Catechism, years ago. And when you hear 


193 


in a sermon, or read in a book, something of which you never 
thought before, you have no trouble in understanding it with- 
the understanding of faith, because you have learned your 
Catechism. You are not thinking of the Catechism when 
you hear or read these things, but you have it in your mind 
all the time that, if you had not learned it, the things you 
hear would be Greek to you. There is just the difficulty you 
have with the Protestant. You show him the ray of light 
when he knows nothing about the sun ; you read a. book to 
him when he knows not his letters; you talk to him about 
religion when he has not learned a word of his Catechism. 
No wonder he does not know when he is beaten, for he does 
not know what you are talking about. He is like Dr. John- 
son, who wanted to dispute in some learned language with an 
Irishman. The doctor began to speak in Greek, telling the 
other that he might answer in that, or in any other tongue. 
The Irishman understood him very well ; but when it was his 
turn to answer, he answered in Irish^ of which the doctor 
did not understand a word. He wriggled in his chair for a 
space, while the other talked in gutturals that must have hurt 
his throat ; and at last he said. Come, sir, I don’t understand 
you. We had better speak in plain English. There is 
another difficulty under which the Catholic labors in these 
disputes. The Protestant does not always hiow that his cause 
is a bad one, but he 'always feels uneasy, as if a screw were 
loose somewhere. He behaves in this matter as he does in 
getting a living ; he is always ready for a start, if he thinks 
that he can better his condition. Hence he does not often 
remain in the persuasion of his fathers. .1 say persuasion, 
because it is not in the nature of things that they can have 
real faith. The sign of the cross tells the passer by that 
there is an altar, a priest, a sacrifice, a church. The weather- 
cock blowing in every direction on the top of their steeples 
is the sign of what their faith is, and it tells that, in the house 
below, are gathered together straws, which are only waiting 
for a wind, to be blown away. Sometimes a cock, roosting 
at the point of the spire, tells that human pride and spite have 
built the house ; he tells that the chickens that met there in 
old times fell to fighting over a worm, and the beaten flock 
went off and built a new coop, and put a game cock on the 
top of it, to show which way the wind blew — to show that, down 
below, the chickens were unterrified, and ready for another 
fight And as the cock turns towards the old coop, he seems 

17 


194 


to crow a triumphant cock-a-doodle-<ioo / So you turned us 
•out, did you ? Cock-a-doodle-DOO ! ! Won’t you let us come 
back again, if we’ll behave ? Cock-a-doodle-DOO ! ! ! 

Well, the Protestant feels uneasy, because he knows, as 
well as you do, that he has a soul to be saved ; and he is not 
sure that he is in the way of saving it. Mind ! it is one thing 
to know that you will be saved, and another to know tnat you 
are in the way of salvation, — that you are in the true Church. 
No man knows whether he will be saved until he is dead. But 
every man can know whether he is, or is not^ in the way of 
being saved. If we neglect to find out this way, it will be 
quite our own fault, and the penalty of such neglect is 
eternal damnation. Woe to the heretic if he- ever had a 
doubt and neglected to clear it up. He will be beaten ! A 
greater woe to the Catholic, who knows that he is in the 
right way, but who neglects to walk therein. He will be 
beaten with many stripes ! 

Signs of this uneasiness are easily seen. You seldom hear 
a Protestant saying our Savior ; he will call him the Savior, 
as if he had no part in Christ’s salvation. You never hear a 
Catholic saying the Savior. It is always our Lord, our Master, 
our Savior. Again, you seldom, if ever, hear a Protestant 
speaking of his faith. He never believes any thing. With 
him it is always opinion.^ or persuasion ; it is never the knowl- 
edge of faith. They will always tell you what they think, 
what is evident to them, what is clear to their minds. And 
they are always ready to tell you what they do not believe. 
There is another sign. It is, the running from one sect to 
another, sometimes making the whole round of sects before 
they die. Not an insignificant sign of their uneasiness is the 
cordial hatred they entertain for Popery. They will fight 
with one another. until the name of this dreadful enemy is 
mentioned, and then they join hands for the moment, and 
rush at the foe, thinking, as the fly did when he kicked the 
lion, that they have done a good deal of damage — enough to 
authorize a shout of Glory’-, Hallelujah. But a never-failing 
sign of their uneasiness is comically palpable when they talk 
with a Catholic about religion. This sense of uneasiness is 
so universal, that you will see it even in a learned minister, 
when talking to the poorest Catholic. It is shown in their 
rooted dislike to being cornered. You know that in draughts^ 
or checkers, it is very hard to corner your one man when you 
have only two pieces with which to corner him. Twenty 


195 


titties you think that you have got him, and the sly thing 
escapes, and leads you a goose chase around the board. The 
Protestant dodges as well. He feels that the ground he is 
standing upon, somehow, isn’t' steady ; so he takes care to 
shift his position often. He knows that a cloud of objections 
will raise a cloud of dust; and he raises a cloud. You can 
never get him to talk about one thing at a time. He will 
begin about worshipping images, and, in a talk of ten or 
twenty minutes, he will give you enough to answer in a 
week. But he won’t wait for the answer — he doesn’t want 
to be cornered. You select one subject, the veneration of 
saints ; and while you are showing him that it is quite proper, 
he will ask you why the priests don’t have wives } Before 
you are done answering, he will want to know why you will 
be such a fool as to pay the priest money for pardoning your 
sins ? You tell him that he is very much mistaken ; and he 
interrupts you, and says, O, don’t talk to me. I know bet- 
ter ; and then, What a silly thing your purgatory is ! And so 
they run, leading you all over the board. Like a fox, who has 
a cave with twenty holes in it, — when you chase him out of 
one, in he runs by another. Some men have built houses on 
the line between Canada and the states, so that without 
leaving the house, they can run from one country to the, 
other. So do Protestants. They dare not occupy one spot 
long. Some people get angry when they see this. I never 
do ; the sight to me is inexpressibly comical. 

The rule for avoiding all this is a very simple, and a very 
fair one. If you will talk, talk about one thing at a time. 
Never ^ under any pretence, allow him to lead you to another 
subject. Keep to the point you are talking about, and he is 
cornered. If you allow him to run all over the board, there 
will be a waste of temper and of words. No honest adver- 
sary will complain because you simply want to settle one 
hing before going to another. When you have settled it, 
make him promise never to mention that subject again, unless 
he has something quite new to say. Because, here is another 
difficulty which a Catholic feels in talking with a Protestant. 
They will repeat an objection a hundred times. After you 
have answered it repeatedly, they will bring it with the air 
of one who is saying a new thing. Once I was talking with 
a bird of this feather. He had objected a dozen things in 
one breath. I selected the last, which was the forgiveness 
of sins. I explained to him the Catholic doctrine concerning 


196 


"it. He tried to start a new subject, but I pressed the point as 
hard as I could, and, after showing him what we believed 
and practised, after proving to him that a man must be igno- 
rant or malicious to bring such a charge, I looked at him, 
expecting that he would own his error. But he said. Well, 
I can’t see how you can be so blind as to pay the priest money 
for pardoning your sins ! And then, there is the superstitious 
custom of praying for the dead, 

There isjust all the good that is commonly gained by these 
disputes. These Protestant disputers are like parrots. I have 
one that sometimes talks just in this fashion. She calls to me 
in the morning — Give me some bread and butter! I give 
her a piece, more than she can eat ; but she will occasionally 
keep up the tune, long after her belly is full —Give me some 
bread and butter ! Give me some bread and butter 1 Do 
you hear ? 

My master was not so unreasonable. I experienced the 
other difficulties, almost always ; but when he had been con- 
fined to one point, and when he had nothing new to urge, he 
seldom raised it again. This was a comfort. He was de- 
termined to talk to me about religion, for I never began 
argument with any body ; but I always knew what points 
would not be touched upon when he began to talk. Before 
the end of three years, there were several subjects avoided 
by mutual consent. 

About the time the Ursuline Convent was destroyed, we 
Catholics had much to endure. Nothing else was talked 
about, of course. The poor nuns got the usual names which 
they get from bigoted heretics. I remember that one man, 
who was present at the scene, came to the shop the next 
morning, and told the story in great glee. He was very 
eloquent about the destruction of the ornaments of the altar, 
and especially about the desecration of the crucifix of our 
little Jesus, as he called it. Yes, they took your little Jesus, 
and smashed his head against the wall. And then some one 
sung out, like an’ auctioneer. How much for the little idol } 
How much for the little Jesus } Going, going, gone ! And 
he tossed your little Jesus into the fire ! 

The earthly court that tried these men acquitted them all. 
No, there was a little boy, who was at the fire, and who 
thought that he might do what bearded men were doing in 
the sight of thousands. He was the scape-goat, and he was 
sent to prison. The rest were acquitted. Well, there is 


197 


another court, before which judge, and jury, and prisoner 
must appear. The Lord seeth. 

It is now 1850, sixteen years, or so, since judge and jury 
told the prisoners at the bar to go uncondemned. And of the 
men that were really guilty, and stood there sixteen years 
ago, how many are dead ? How did they die > How many 
are alive that are worse than dead Which of them has 
gone scathless ? The Lord judgeth. 

Sixteen years. A new town lies at the foot of the Jiill. 
Pleasant villas encompass it on every side. The Monument 
yet looks upon the black ruins, and says. What harm has 
happened to me because I have done this thing .? Massachu- 
setts has forgotten it. Boston has forgotten it. Charlestown 
has forgotten it. So has not God. The story of the black 
ruinS is written in His book ; and beneath the picture of a 
holy retreat, made a wilderness by the rage of man, there is 
a sentence — I am the Lord ; I will repay ! 

Would that the wicked deed had not been done ! And 
when it was done, would that earthly courts had not sent up 
the case to be tried in heaven ! 

About this time a poor priest, who had broken his vows, and 
lost his faith, started a paper, called the Downfall of Babylon. 
Babylon meant Popery ; and Samuel Smith, who had been a 
priest for sixteen years, told the dear, fifty -times-gulled, and 
always-ready-to-be-gulled-again Protestants that he was the 
man chosen by Providence to wage war, single-handed, with 
the Man of Sin, — he meant the holy Pope, Gregory XVI., 
— to smite him, and slay him, and pare' his hoofs, cut'offhis 
tail, root out his horns, and send ’em to a new museum, 
twenty-five cents, children half price. 

It was a terrible looking paper. There was a picture of 
Rome, struck by lightning, and the three hundred and sixty- 
four churches were tumbling to the ground. When the 
Protestants looked at that picture, they felt very happy ; 
they almost felt that they could see the churches tumbling, 
and the sign of salvation, on which the Savior hung, trampled 
upon by devils, who had flown to assist at the downfall of 
the mighty city. 

It was a very savage paper, too. Smith evidently thought 
that, as long as he had sold himself, he might as well stick at 
nothing. So every week he told awful stories about us j and 
the stories of each week were more awful than those of the 
last. • I didn’t envy his Protestant readers their feelings, fot 
17* 


• 198 


they were very unpleasant. If the Pope and all his cardinals 
were coming to live in the State House, and if brimstone 
corner of Park Street were to be turned into an Inquisition, 
they couldn’t have felt worse. 

Smith generally contrived to be assassinated by wicked 
Papists, every little while ; and, in every possible way, he 
labored to bring about the scenes that were witnessed in 
Philadelphia, a few years ago. While the Convent rioters 
wer^ being tried, he wrote a series of articles on Popish nuns, 
which probably had some effect for the time. The paper 
seemed to be tolerably well supported, and among its early 
patrons was my master. I believe that he bought it for me. 
I read it, I am ashamed to say. It was wrong, because such 
reading is forbidden. It was wrong, because my salvation 
had been in peril enough already, without running willingly 
into danger from a new source. Disobedience in this matter 
is quite too common. We are warned, emphatically warned, 
by Christ to beware of false teachers. One apostle tells us 
that if any man, even an angel, should bring us another doc- 
trine, let him be cursed. Another tells us to beware of their 
conversation^ lest they lead us astray. St. John is more em- 
phatic. If any man come to you, and bring not this doctrine, 
receive him not into the house, nor say, God speed you ! For 
he that saith unto him, God speed you ! communicateth with 
his wicked works. It is strange that some people, who will 
never go to meetings scruple not to read any book that lies in 
their way. Just as if we could not receive damnation by the 
eye as well as by the ear ; as if a sermon, which is forgot- 
ten as soon as heard, were more dangerous than a book which 
contains things perhaps far worse than the sermon did, and 
which we can remember better, because we can read leisurely. 
It is a shame that so many persons disobey the Church in this 
matter. We have no business to read any thing written by 
Protestants about religious matters. The book brings another 
doctrine ; it brings a doctrine which was not taught to us ; 
and if we say to it, God speed you! we communicate with 
wicked works. When St. Paul founded the church at 
Ephesus, the new Christians brought all their bad books, and 
burnt them publicly. The value of the books burned that day 
was no less a sum than fifty ‘thousand pieces of silver — 
a great sum of money in those days. 

A great mistake, and not the less great because it is com- 
mon, is the tempting God in any way. One of the worst 


199 


ways of tempting Him is to behave as if our faith, once given 
to us, cannot be lost. It is very common to hear a Catholic 
O, I will not lose my faith, if I lose every thing else ! 
Just as if it were yours to keep, or to lose ! Just as if you 
could keep it, unless by a miracle of mercy, when you put 
it in danger, every day, by communicating with wicked works, 
wicked speeches, wicked books, wicked papers. Did you 
never see a Catholic who had lost his faith } I have, often. 
And have you any conception of the thrice awful state in 
which those unfortunates are ? If you ask them^ they will 
tell you that they eat, drink, sleep, and amuse themselves as 
usual. They don’t care for the priest. If they are women, 
they will laugh with their new friends at the Paddies, while 
they are sitting over a social dish of tea. The man will per- 
haps go about in stores, and at taverns, and tell his new 
friends that.he is emancipated from the yoke that Christ laid 
upon his shoulders. Perhaps he will start a paper for Catho- 
lics, telling them that the priests are wronging them in almost 
every way, wronging them when living, wronging them when 
dead. 

Now, these people have lost their faith. God has recalled 
his gift, because they have abused it. They do not always ’ 
suffer from the loss, apparently. Sometimes they feel quite 
at ease, because they have succeeded in stupefying their con- 
science ; and this is the worst state that can befall a man in 
this world. A man that is dying is an object of pity ; 
a man that is dying, and does not know it, is an object of 
horror. 

Sometimes these poor souls are subjects of God’s mercy 
while they are yet alive. But too commonly death enters 
their door, and finds them thus, and he strikes them. Then 
the lost faith is given back again. But what a time to receive 
the gift ! Efficient grace can save him, but can he ask for 
it .? Or will he i And if to his other sins he add the 
crowning one, the sin against the Holy Ghost ; if his recov- 
ered faith only shows him his crimes ; if he despairs of God’s 
mercy, and dies, — what then i 

You had better be very careful about your reading. While 
you read only such books and papers as the Church allows, 
you are safe. 

I succeeded in proving to my master that this paper was a 
bad one ; that its spirit was unchristian ; that it was full of 
obscenity and lies ; and that it was unworthy of the support 


200 


of a man who pretended to be a Christian. He stopped it 
shortly after. 

The Protestants who loved to sup on Popish horrors, and 
have nightmares in consequence, were fully provided for in 
the years of 1834-35. Poor Rebecca Reed had written her 
silly book about the Charlestown convent, and it did some- 
thing towards keeping up the anti-Popery cry in Massachu 
setts. She has done her work, and is dead. God have mercy, 
on her soul, amen ! Some of her abettors are gone. Well, 
let them rest ! 

But her book did not contain any horrors, after all. It was 
only a sop thrown to hungry Protestants ; and it made them 
lick their chops for more horrors. And they got ’em. Some 
New York ministers of the gospel induced a wretched woman, 
named Maria Monk, to mother a book, purporting to be awful 
disclosures about a nunnery in Montreal. It was just the 
thing ! Miss Maria could support herself and her offspring ; 
the ministers lined their pockets with yellow linings ; and, 
besides, they had the satisfaction of thinking that they had 
partly killed one of the nine lives of Popery ; and they en- 
joyed the supreme satisfaction of sitting in their arm-chairs, 
and laughing to think how they had gulled their dearly-beloved 
brethren and sisters ! how the ministers that were in the 
secret would puff the book ! how they that weren’t would 
tell the dear people that Maria Monk had been a Charlotte 
Corday to the Pope — that she had killed him, body and 
bones — how the editors would call upon their readers to 
buy tbe book, and so drive another nail in the Pope’s coffin ; 
to read it, and see what this precious country was coming to, 
if Moody -minded Papists were allowed to live in it peaccMy ; 
how the young and old, ugly and pretty, sour and sweet 
haters of the Scarlet Lady would hiss and pout, and cry and 
howl, and raise all sorts of mournful noises, because of the 
wrath that the priests were bringing in their pockets, to empty 
upon this Protestant land. 

Well, fifteen years are gone. It is not long for God to 
wait ; neither is it for His Church, because she lives His life. 
Ask the horror-hunters what they think of Maria now ? The 

convent was publicly examined by a Protestant committee, 

for the nuns had asked for one, as soon as the book was sent 
to them, — and when the gentlemen made their report, every 
respectable Protestant, who had the book in his house, put it 
into the fire. The honorable portion of them would never 


20] 


coustenance the thing from the beginning. But how ashamed 
were the male and female old ladies, who had gone about and 
cracked ever so many trumpets for Maria, when they found 
that their persecuted saint was a wholesale liar, and a prosti- 
tute, to boot ! 

Fifteen years are gone into eternity, and Maria has gone 
after them. The ministers had used her, and had abandoned 
her. She went again into the streets. She was imprisoned, 
as a loose woman and as a common thief. Last autumn, in 
the New York jail, the poor woman breathed her last. 

What a miserably bad cause the Protestants must have, 
when they think it necessary to use such weapons as these ! 

My master would not look at the book. Fie said that, even 
admitting such things were true, they were unfit to be pub- 
lished. So thought many others. But, true or false, it was 
a filthy story ; and so many persons kept it, for the same 
reasons that urge them to keep other immoral books. The 
animal appetites were excited by their perusal. This keeps 
such books as Maria Monk in some houses to this day. 

Smith saw what was going on, and he thought that there 
was no harm in sharing the profits, if people would buy such 
books. So he got a woman, and called her Rosamond Cul- 
bertson. She had been in a convent in the West Indies, and 
she could tell stories that would make your hairs turn into 
snakes, and -bite their own heads off* with their tails. Her 
book went far beyond Maria Monk ; in fact, it served a useful 
purpose ; it was so silly, and so nasty, that many eyes were 
opened, and the male and female women that hated Popery 
hung down their heads lower than ever. 

It seems that sausages are made of Protestant meat in 
some of the West India Islands. The way it is done is this : 
The churches and convents have dungeons under them, for 
the punishment of heretics. One of these is a sausage fac- 
tory. The Protestant is tumbled into a kind of hopper, that 
soon makes mince-meat of him. He goes in, buttons and 
all, at one end, and comes out at the other, half a mile of 
sausages. These are reserved for the eating of priests and 
nuns. 

Protestantism must be dying when it gives such very 
desperate kicks. 

Well, it is dying. In Germany, its birthplace, it is already 
dead and buried, and there is none to cry over it, and say 
Oh ! why did ye die ? The Germans are now either Catho- 


202 


lies or infidels. The same result has been obtained in 
France, long since. In England, they are nailing its coffin. 
The government forced Socinian bishops upon the Church 
and good reason why. Was it not by law established ? And 
has not the government, in the late Gorham case, made a 
decision that knocks out of it the little breath it ever had } 
The same result is rapidly coming in this country. Boston 
has taken the lead, and its religion is atheistical ; for the God 
of Theodore Parker is not the God of Sinai, or of Calvary. 
It is a fine state of things, when a Calvinistic congregation 
sit and sleep comfortably under a L^nitarian. They agree 
to pay his salary, if he will promise not to hurt their feelings 
by saying in the pulpit that Christ is not God. It is a fine 
state of things when a Unitarian congregation use the liturgy 
of the church of England, and solemnly say things in the 
meeting-house which they think are Z^es, because, by. doing 
so, they can keep the house and property. It is very con- 
sistent for a man to say out of the meeting-house that Christ 
is not God, and to adore him in the meeting-house as God. 
Then they woi’ship the creature as the Creator. Well, who 
would think that idolatry would ever be publicly practised in 
Boston, and unreproved } 

Protestantism must end thus, for it is its nature to dp so. 
It was in the beginning little better than atheism dressed in 
a few Christian garments ; and its work, during the last three 
hundred years, has been a successive throwing ofi'of those forms. 
Channing and Parker are naked Protestants ; they have cast 
aside all those forms but two. One of them is the habit of 
meeting together on Sundays. The other is the occasional 
use of a few words which popular prejudice will not allow to 
be thrown aside, as yet — such words as Christianity^ God, 
and heaven. As for hell and the devil, they lie under the 
table for future examination. 

Homoeopathic Christians make no secret of this tendency, 
of course. Quite the contrary ; for it is their boast that they 
have taken religion out of God’s hands, and under their own 
protection. But the Protestants who, rather unadvisedly, call 
themselves Evangelicals, are quite aware of it, too. Indeed, 
they can’t very well help acknowledging it with groans ; for 
their members and their property have been going over to 
the homoeopathic Christians, during the last twenty years, with 
fearful rapidity. They seem to know, too, that their last day 
is very near. That is evident, from the very strong remedies 


203 


Kill or cure ones — which they are taking. These are chiefly 
two. One is the revival remedy, which consists in galvanizing 
sinners either into the church or into a madhouse. The other 
is the very extraordinary, and supremely wicked and foolish 
rushes they make, every now and then, against Popery. 

They are now getting ready for another struggle, which they 
feel will be their last. Do not be afraid of it. Kemember 
Maria Monk, Rebecca Reed, Smith, and the other worthies 
of ’34. Fifteen years are not a lifetime. The Church has 
had far worse enemies than the Protestants are, who lived 
longer than Protestantism will, even if it do last a century 
longer, as it probably will not. 

One day my master began to talk. I know that you deny 
that you pay money to the priest for pardoning sin, said he. 
In fact, you told me the other day what your Church says 
about, it ; and, although I do not believe your doctrine, still, it 
looks more reasonable than it did before. You know I never 
talked much with Catholics before I saw you, and I am glad 
to have a chance to know what they really do believe ; so 
many stories are told about them. But I want you to explain 
this. My servant girl went out last Saturday, and she wanted 
some money. She said that she was going to confession, and 
she wanted to give it to the priest. 

do not doubt your word, said I, although I never heard 
of such a case before. You are sure that you understood her 
correctly } 

Yes. 

Well, sir, she has told a lie. She wanted money for some 
other purpose. She didn’t want to tell what that was. I 
wouldn’t give her money again for such a thing ; and, if she 
asks for it, I would tax her with the lie direct. It wouldn’t 
be a bad plan to tell her that you will give me her name, and 
I will report her to the bishop. That will cure her, I think. 
The sacraments are the channels of the grace of Christ. 
Every Christian soul has a right to them, and no priest can 
charge money, or refuse to administer any sacrament without 
it, on the peril of his soul. 

I thought of this thing often afterwards, and two or three 
cases have come to my knowledge which were precisely 
similar. These silly creatures do not know what they are 
doing. I do not care so much about it, inasmuch as it 
strengthens Protestant prejudice ; for there is such a mountain 
of it, that ^ stone more or less makes little difference. Yet 


204 


it is a wicked thing to create or to increase that prejudice. 
It is the lie that is told, and not a common lie either. It is a 
mean, infamous lie, told in a matter that touches the honor of 
the Church. To be sure, the indiscretion of her children, 
and the malice of her enemies, cannot harm her. Yet it is 
pitiful to see a Catholic join with Protestants in the dirty 
work of throwing mud at the Church ; at their own mother. 
Why, if you have earneu your nioney, it is yours. You are 
not obliged to tell any body what you are going to do with it. 
And if you think that you are, why, tell the truth. You have 
a right to contribute towards the support of your Church, just 
as your employers have to pay for the maintenance of their 
minister. It is your duty to do so, and you need not be 
ashamed to have people know that you perform that duty. 
But when they will insist upon the silly lie that sins are par- 
doned in the Chnrch for money, do not tell them that, it is 
true. Do not ask them for money to be , employed in that 
way. If you do, you will perish, and your money with you. 

There was an Irishman who answered to the name of Mike, 
and who did the carting of the shop. He had a way of his 
own of getting rid of talk about religion. I had not been in 
the place long when he came in, one day. 

Mike ! exclaimed one of the men. 

Sirr ! 

Is it true that the priests pray you out of Purgatory } 

Yis, sirr. 

And you give ’em money for it > 

Yis, sirr. 

And the priests pardon your sins > 

. Yis, sirr. 

Do you give ’em money } 

Yis, sirr. 

Ain’t you a d fool } 

Yis, sirr. 

And Mike went away with his mouth stretched from ear to 
ear. Another day the happy-go-lucky Mike came into a 
room where I was working alone. 

Mike! 

Sirr. 

It’s true, then, that you give the priests money when you gf. 
to confession ? 

Yis, sirr. 

See here, Mike. When did you go to confession last f 


205 


What do you tell these stories for ? Did you learn them in 
your Catechism ? Pm a Catholic, and I never heard such 
things. 

To see how Mike’s whole demeanor changed ! The cross 
of Christ be upon us always, said he. I didn’t know that you 
were one of us. Why, you see, thim Yankees are haythens. 
They don’t know no more about religion nor a horse. Lord 
save us all, but they know less, for the crathur attinds to 
his duty, betther nor thim do to theirs. It’s no use talking 
to such Pagans at all, at all. If ye tell thim what the oukJ 
religion 15 , ye can’t insinse ’em into it, more be token that 
they weren’t christened, and they’re innocent of the grace of 
♦ Christ. So if you thry to rayson wid ’em, they’ll make a 
mock of all that’s holy, and thaCs hard to bear. They’ll 
turn us into ridicule, let us say what we will. If we tell ’em 
the thruth, they’ll make game of us. If we tdl ’em a crooked 
story about it, they’ll make game of us all the same. It’s all 
one to the haythens ! So, of the two, I’d rather they’d 

make game of me, than of all I wear nixt my heart, and 
thaVs my church. So I tell thim what they like, and let thim 
say what they like. 

It may be, that a great many persons have unconsciously 
strengthened the silly prejudices of Protestants in the same 
way. They could not endure to have the faith which they 
cherished made light of by scoffing unbelievers. They pre- 
ferred to ‘be laughed at, and to be called fools, rather than 
allow fools to make merry over the jewel which they wore 
next their heart. It may be, too, that poor men and wonrien 
often have words put into their mouths that they never said, 
or interpretations made of their words which they would utterly 
reject. Here is an instance in point. 

A few years ago, a friend of mine made a savage attack 
upon priests for taking money for pardoning sins. You have 
denied it again and again, said he. But I can prove it. 
There is the girl that lives with me ; she is a right good girl, 
if she is a Catholic. She dressed to go out last Saturday, and 
she asked my wife for money. She said she was going to 
confession, and she wanted to pay her dues. Now, what do 
you think of that ? Here is a case happening right before 
my face and eyes, and how can I help believing it.? You are 
an honest fellow, but you are blinded. You don’t know the 
villainy of your priests. 

I knew the girl in question ; she was very intelligent, and 
18 


206 


she was a good Catholic. She was an excellent specimen of 
the Boston Irish Catholic young women, who do the work in 
families, or otherwise labor hard for their bread. They have 
done more for the interests of religion in Boston, taking their 
means into consideration, than all other classes put together. 
They have built St. Mary’s Church ; they have built every 
church in Boston. The charity of the Boston Catholics is 
proverbial. To be sure, in ages of faith, it would not be 
regarded as extraordinary ; but, in these times, it deserves 
great credit. And these girls have done more than their share 
of the good work which has given such a name to Catholic 
Boston. No one ever called upon them in vain. They will 
often give more than they can afford ; and their generous 
hearts make them feel half disposed to apologize for giving so 
little. And, in truth, a girl of this class often gives actually 
more to pious purposes than some men who are not poor. 
She thinks that she can afford a dollar. He thinks that it is 
hard times ; and he gives fifty cents. The Catholic young 
women need no monument. Their monument is a church in 
every quarter of the city. 

Now, I knew that this girl never told such a silly story ; so 
I said to my friend that I would clear up the matter. He was 
obstinate, and would believe nothing. I went to his house 
that evening, and told her what I had heard, when her merry 
laugh settled my doubts, if I had any. Well, said she, these 
Protestants are knowing enough in worldly matters, but when 
religion is concerned, they lose their senses. 

Well, said I, when you remove the tea things, I will speak 
to you about it, before them. 

Very well. But don’t be so innocent as to think that it will 
do them any good. It is very hard to get people to give up a 
lie, when they love to believe it. 

Catharine, said I, when she ^me up stairs to remove the 
tray, did you ask Mrs. Jones for money last Saturday } 

Yes, I did. 

Did you say that you were going to confession, and you 
wanted to give it to the priest for pardon } 

No, sir, I didn't. 

Why, Catharine ! exclaimed Mrs. Jones. Didn’t I hear it 
with my own ears } 

No, maa’m, you didn’t. You heard me say two very dif- 
ferent things, and you jumbled them together, so that they 
made nonsense. I did tell you that I was going to confession. 


207 


Some girls are afraid or ashamed to tell their mistresses 
when they are going on that errand ; but I never was. I wish 
that I could go every week. No one ought to be afraid or 
ashamed to do a duty, especially when it is due to God. 
Going to confession is the same as owning that we are sin- 
ners, and stand in need of God’s mercy. It is true that I 
ought to be ashamed to be a sinner, when our Savior has done 
so much for me ; but 1 am not afraid to own that I am. So I 
told you that I was going to confession ; and I did so, because 
you have a right to know where I spend my time. After- 
wards, I asked you for three dollars, and I told you that I 
wanted it for church purposes. I said those very words, as 
you will recollect. And it was true, for I. wanted to pay the 
sexton my pew rent, which was almost due. You put those 
two different stories together, and made it appear that I told a 
nonsensical lie. And she gave another merry laugh, as she 
disappeared. Mr. and Mrs. Jones looked quite blank. 

I have no doubt that many servant girls are made to tell 
nonsensical lies in this very way. Here is another very com- 
mon blunder. 

One Monday morning, a fellow-workman came to the shop, 
and said that he had seen a great show in the Cathedral, the 
day before. He had seen more than a hundred go up to the 
priest to get their sins pardoned. I was at church that day^ 
and I asked him if he were not ashamed to tell such a foolish 
story. 

Seeing is believing, said he. I’ve heard a great many 
times of it ; but now that I’ve seen it with my own eyes, I 
believe it, and you can’t get it out of me, any how. 

I questioned him about the time and the way in which it 
was done ; and I found that he had seen several people go to 
the altar, and receive holy communion. His imagination 
supplied the rest. He saw them go to the altar ; he saw the 
priest go to each of them ; he didn’t know what it meant at 
all ; and so they ?nust have gone to get their sins pardoned ! 
Well ! well ! These Protestants, in religious matters, see 
with any thing but their eyes, and hear with any thing but 
their ears. They are under a sort of magnetic influence, 
which transfers the seat of understanding from their brains 
to their elbows. 

My master gave me a nice Bible, one day. John, said he, 
you know I love you as if you were my own hoy. I am 
giving you what, in my eyes, is better than earthly treasures. 


208 


You have shown- me that your religion allows you to study 
the Bible, which is a thing we Protestants don’t generally 
know. Now read it, do ! Not for my sake, but for your 
own. I have no doubt whatever that very good men have 
lived and died in your Church ; — such men as Fenelon, and 
Kempis, and Cheverus, and your Bishop Fenwick. I heard 
him preach the day that he called the Catholics together, after 
the Convent was burned down, and I never heard such a ser- 
mon on our duty to' forgive and love our enemies. He took 
for his text the words of the Savior on the cross — Father, 
forgive them, for they know not what they do ; and that 
sublime commandment — But I say unto you. Do good to them 
that hate you. 

I believe that if the Catholics kept still after that shameful 
riot, if blood was not shed in the city, the praise is due to 
him. But I think that if you followed the Bible more, it 
would be a great deal better. 

Sir, said I, I will take the book, because it is your gift. 
But I tell you, that I cannot read it. We are forbidden to read 
it, precisely because it is not the Bible. If it really were, 
there would be no objection. 

What do you mean by that 7 

Here is what I mean. I read in the Bible that an awful 
punishment awaits him who takes away any thing, or adds 
any thing, to this book. Now, you Protestants are all liable 
to be punished, for you have all offended in this. Your Bible 
is no Bible, because it is not as God gave it to us. You all 
reject what you call the Apocrypha, which is nevertheless 
God’s word: Your great captain, Luther, called the Epistle 
pf St. James an epistle of straw. Your brethren in Germany 
are getting rid of the whole Bible very fast. The greater 
part of them say that it is no more inspired than Shakspeare 
was, and, in some cases, not so much. One man, who calls 
himself a Protestant minister, here in Boston, has said in the 
pulpit that it contains lies^ and that the writers sometimes 
knew that they were lying. 

But you must not charge upon us the wickedness of these 
Unitarians. We have no part or lot with them. ‘ 

You think that you have not ; but your religion flows from 
the same principle as theirs. You have drawn one conclu • 
Sion from it, and they have drawn another. Both are sub- 
stantially the same ; and, as you move from the same principle, 
you have no right to quarrel with one another’s conclusions, 


209 


especially as both conclusions really flow from the same 
premises. All the difference between you is, that you have 
chosen to stop, for the present, at a ojerlain point ; and they 
have chosen to go on. You all are like men who have agreed 
to go by the same road, only one puts up at a certain tavern, 
and another likes the next inn best, and so walks onward until 
he meets it. * 

What principle is that you are talking about } 

The principle of private interpretation. You all start from 
it, and one of you has quite as good a right to use it as another. 
That principle can be stated in several ways. Here is a true 
representation of it. The only rule of faith is the Bible, pri- 
vately, but honestly interpreted — that is, with a wish to get 
at the truth. An interpretation of any kind is a thought of 
themiind. Your interpretation of the Bible is a thought of 
your mind. The Bible is not a living witness, who can tell 
you what he means to say. So your rule of faith is, after all, 
the thoughts of your own mind. Your thoughts are not dis- 
tinct from yourself. So that you are your own rule of faith. 
But every one of you is fallible; so you all have a fallible 
rule of faith, which is an awful error. A rule of faith must 
be infallible, otherwise there can be no such thing as faith. 
It must be such that the ignorant wayfarer need not err. It is 
not enough to think that we are in the right way ; we must be 
absolutely certain of it. We must have a certainty that 
excludes even the possibility of error. Then we know pre- 
cisely what to do. If we do it, we will be saved. If we do 
it not, we will be eternally damned. In the next place, 
the thoughts of men vary with their minds. So there will 
be nearly as many rules of faith as there are men. I 
once heard a man, who is of some repute in the literary 
world, say that, when he was a Unitarian, there were no two 
who thought alike in religious matters, excepting himself and 
another, and they disagreed in several particulars. Now, if 
you had lived through eighteen hundred years, and if you 
had talked with every practical Catholic in every land, you 
would have heard but one story, from St. Paul to Bishop 
Fenwick; from Simon the tanner to our happy-go-lucky 
Mike ; from India to America ; from Siberia to Cape Horn. 
You will hear thousands of millions chanting the same creed. 
You will hear them make an act of faith, and say, My God, 
r believe all the truths which Thy Church teaches, because- 
IS* 


210 


Thou hast revealed them. So that, as your rule of faith is 
your thoughts^ and as they are your own self, it follows that 
man finds his religion* in himself. You need not -talk about 
the Spirit of God, for He is a Spirit of Truth, and the truth 
must be One. He cannot teach one Bible reader that Christ 
is not God, and teach another that he {s. He cannot say to 
one that there is no hell, and whisper in the ear of another 
that there is. The Spirit that does this is the Spirit of Lies. 

But why will you class us with such men } It is not fair. 

It is fair ; and I have told you why. They profess to get 
Iheir religibii from the Bible ; so do you. You say that they 
do not get it thence, and they return the compliment. They 
pray for light, just as you do. If you wish to save your soul, 
so do they. You find hell in the Bible ; they do not. They 
read in it that Christ is not God ; you read that he is. Now, 
their professions are as good as yours. The spirit that guides 
Hosea Ballou, or Dr. Channing, is no worse than the spirit that 
teaches you. For it is the spirit of man. 

Well,' then, man finds his own religion in himself ; and he 
need not go. out of himself to find it, because he need not -go 
out of himself to find his own thoughts. Then man is his 
own religion. You Protestants practically own it, for you have 
hundreds of religions to suit different fancies ; and religions 
change and multiply so fast, that the Dictionary of All Reli- 
gions, which was sufficiently accurate last year, needs revision 
in this. Well, then, man is his own religion. If this be true, 
then he finds in himself the object of his religion, of his wor- 
ship. But in himself he finds nothing but himself. So the 
object of man’s worship is himself Only God can be wor- 
shipped. Then man is God. We have come to it at last ! 
Protestantisxn is atheism ; it is the worship of Humanity. An 
idol is set up in the holy place of God ! 

Much obliged to you for calling me an atheist. It is very 
charitable in you. 

God forbid that I should call you an atheist, for you are 
not. I merely say that your religion contains principles which 
must push it to atheism in the long run. But you are not 
aware of it, because you have contented yourself with develop- 
ing Protestantism to a certain point, and stopping there, while 
others have pushed onward. The point of Protestantism at 
which you have stopped is atheism dressed in clothes which 
imitate the Christian garment near enough to make many peo 


211 


pie contented to wear it. Yours is precisely the teaching of 
which Christ warned us, and which is calculated, as He said, 
to deceive, if it were possible, the very elect. For the rest, 
I have only shown you the last tavern on the road you are 
travelling. You may not live to reach it, or even the next 
tavern to the one in which you are stopping. It is not to be 
wondered at if you do not know the road you have to travel. 

But how do you know the road ? Have you travelled it ? 

No ; but I have an infallible teacher, who gives her chil- 
dren a chart of it. She ought to know itj for her enemies 
have issued from every tavern in it to attack her ; but she has 
always driven them back to their kennels. She knows it as 
a general knows a conquered country. For the rest, you can- 
not but feel that my reasoning in showing that Protestantism 
is atheism disguised, is not mere speculation; because the 
descent I have been describing is going on in every country 
where heresy is established. In Germany, the men whose 
fathers were Lutherans or Calvinists are atheists. It is so in 
France. It is so in England. You see it before your face 
here in Boston. All these Unitarian churches were Calvin- 
istic, when you were born. You see your brethren turning 
Unitarians and Universalists every day, and you own that 
these are not Christians. Moreover, even Unitarianism is grow- 
ing too old. Channing, and his disciple, Parker, are reform- 
ing out of it the little truth it ever had ; and man worship, 
which is worse than idolatry, is publicly taught in this city. 
Worse than idolatry ; for it is better to have a Fetish, with 
the Hottentots, than to have no God at all. 

But you tried to prove that our religion leads to atheism, 
because we only follow our private judgment or thoughts 
about religious matters. I let you go on ; but I did not think 
that you would bring atheism out of that. But now, admit- 
ting all this to be true, I cannot see that you are better off 
than we are. What have you but your thoughts to guide you 
in this matter ? 

My dear sir, if I had no better guide, I would not dare to 
speak of you Protestants as I have done. I would not dare to 
assert so confidently that yours is a false church, or to say 
that there is no salvation Out of the One P'old. I would not 
venture to assert the immeasurable superiority of our church 
over your meeting. If I had no other guide, or if I had 
simply a fallible one, such language would be insupportably 
arrogant. My thoughts are no better than yours are. Per- 


213 


haps they are worse. It may be that if I trusted to my own 
thoughts, they would plunge me into atheism sooner than 
yours would you. No, there lives not the man that can 
judge his brother on his own authority. Before God we are 
all poor sinners. But I have an infallible guide in these mat- 
ters, and I trust to her ; for the experience of eighteen cen- 
turies shows that she is worthy of unlimited trust. Here is 
the state of the case : I stand at a point where a hundred 
roads meet, and every sign-board says. The shortest road to 
Jerusalem. 1 w^t to get there, but I do not know the road. 
Appended to every sign-board but one there hang printed 
directions, called Bibles, telling how to travel along the road. 
But one of the paths has no such directions. In the place of 
them there stands a guide. Well, I see people entering eacn 
of these roads. I see, some that went in by one road come 
out at another, having lost much time and labor without gain- 
ing a step. There is plenty of evidence that they who follow 
the printed directions generally lose their way. On this 
account knots of people stand at the head of each road dis- 
puting about the meaning of the directions. Some interpret 
them thus, others interpret them so. Meanwhile the guide 
stands there at his post. He invites them to go by that road ; 
he tells them that printed directions are, at best, unsafe 
guides, because they cannot explain their own meaning ; 
whereas he is a living guide. But they generally neglect 
him, because they are possessed with the notion that there 
never was a road to Jerusalem that ever furnished any thing 
but printed directions. Well, I go to him, and he gives cer- 
tain evidence that he is a good guide. I see that there is 
no possibility of eluding the proof he brings to establish the 
fact that h^ was put there by the Lord that made the road, 
expressly to guide travellers to Jerusalem ; and he produces 
the promise of the same Lord, that whoever will be guided 
by him shall not lose the way. Here is just our case against 
you. When I travel along that road, I am not following my 
own thoughts. They would have taken me to one of the 
other roads. I am following an infallible guide. When I say 
that no one of those roads can lead to Jerusalem, I am not 
saying a thing I found out myself. I am saying what he 
, says after I have found that there is no possibility of his mak- 
ing a mistake. 

Well, but you have only shifted the difficulty. 

How } 


% 


213 


Why, you won’t trust to your thoughts, but you will trust 
to the thoughts of your infallible guide. Now, this guide 
means your priests, I suppose. But they are men as well 
as you are. And what have they to trust to but their thoughts ? 
Why are theirs better than yours ? 

My dear sir, if they had no better guide than their own 
thoughts, I would not trust them. I would as lief trust Chan- 
ning as Bishop Fenwick. There is not a member of the 
Church of God, from the Pope to the beggar, who trusts to 
his own thoughts in this matter. A human thought is liable 
to error, whether the Pope think it, or whether you think it. 
But the teaching Church, which is made up of the bishops in 
communion with Rome, is an infallible guide. Just like the 
man at the head of the road, he does not trust to his own 
thoughts* when he tells you that his road is the only good one. 
He tells what the Lord of the road said to him. So the 
bishops in communion with Rome cannot lead us astray ; not 
because they, as men, are infallible, for they are not ; but 
because Christ commanded them to teach His word, and 
promised to teach thern all truth through His Spirit, who 
would abide in them forever, and who would see that while they 
were teaching they would never lead souls astray. The Pope 
is a fallible man in himself. But when he teaches the Church, 
he relies upon the same promise ; and eighteen centuries have 
shown that the promise was never broken. So here is the 
whole secret of infallibility. Christ taught the Church ; He 
commanded her to teach all nations in His name, and He 
promised that she would never teach false doctrine. So you 
see that we Catholics do not trust to our own thoughts in re- 
ligious matters. They are blind leaders of the blind. The 
assistance of the Holy Ghost ought not to be a new idea to 
you, because each of you claims it. But falsely, because He 
cannot teach contradictory doctrines. It is one of the proofs 
of his presence to the Church, that she teaches One doctrine 
in all times and in all places. 

But have your bishops two minds thinking at the same time, 
— one fallible, the other not } 

That is a quibble. The thought in the guide’s mind, that 
his i^ the true road, is a thought of his mind ; and if he had 
no other authority than himself, the thought would be fallible, 
of course. It is an infallible thought, because it was taught 
to him by One who knew. If you lived at Jerusalem in the 
time of Christ, if you sat at His feet, and listened to His word, 


214 


the truths communicated to you by him would, in your mind, 
be your thoughts. Yet yoi? would never have discovered them ; 
you learned them from an infallible teacher. They are your 
thoughts, inasmuch as you think them ; they are His, inasmuch 
as he told you just what to think. When Simon Peter thought 
and said that Jesus was the Son of God, our Lord said to him, 
Thou art blessed, for flesh and blood hath not revealed it to 
thee ! This thought in the mind of St. Peter was an infalli- 
ble one, for it was taught to him from heaven. Just so a 
thought in the mind of the Church, in the minds of the 
bishops met in council, to the effect that Christ is God, is an 
infallible thought ; not because it is the thought of the men 
there met together, but because Christ taught His Church that 
truth, and promised that she should teach it unto the end of 
time. The formal essence the Church, considered as a 
teaching body, is the presence of the Holy Ghost. Hence 
Tertullian said that the Church is the Holy Ghost. And coun- 
cils, in declaring the truth to us, say, — It hath seemed good 
to the Holy Ghost and to us. 

I wish that this infallibility could be proved. 

It is proved clearly enough. But a talk about it would lead 
us from our subject. It is enough to say that, although we can- 
not find the truth of ourselves, we can find the person who 
was sent to teach it. Our minds are capable of weighing 
motives of credibility. In other words, when guides step for- 
ward and offer to show us the way to Jerusalem, we ought 
always to ask them if they were sent to do it. If they are not, 
they are agents of the devil. If they say that they were sent, 
we must ask them to show their credentials, their papers. We 
can always tell whether these papers are true or forged. If 
they-are true, why, there is our guide. Our own reason is 
fallible in judging what things were revealed* by Christ, and 
what were not ; but there are some things about which we 
can come to a certainty, that removes the possibility of a 
doubt. And among those things are the motives of credi- 
bility of which I have spoken. But, to leave this subject, let 
me ask a question. I read in the Missionary Herald, the 
other day, an argument used by Dr. Judson for the conver- 
sion of a pagan. Said he to the pagan. Will you grapt that 
it is possible for Christianity to be true ? 

Yes, I grant it. 

Well, I do not grant that your paganism can be. If you 
die in it, you will be damned. Now, only you think that it is 


215 


safe for you to remain a pagan, while both agree that with us 
there is a chance. As a prudent man, you ought to become 
a Christian, even if it were the only motive. All Christians 
in the world agree that you are lost, if you remain as you are. 

^ How do you like Dr. Judson’s argument ? 

I think that it is not a bad one. 

Well, I heard you talking with a Universalist, the other day, 
about hell. You urged him to become a Christian ; for, said 
you, the whole Christian world is against you, and that is a 
weighty consideration. Now, if there is no hell, we are aU 
safe. But if there he a hell, you will be damned, if you do 
not repent. The chances are therefore in our favor, and 
against you. Now, when you proposed that argument, did 
you think it a sound one } 

Certainly I did. 

Well, then, see here ! not one of your churches claims to 
be infallible — good reason why. The Catholic Church does. 
Now, I think that the necessity of an infallible guide is clear 
enough. The chances are against you, if you do not examine 
her credentials. For you all own that there can be salva- 
tion found in the Catholic Church. This Church, which claims 
to be infallible, declares solemnly, as a truth taught her by 
Christ, that out of her pale there is no salvation. Yours is not 
the safest side. 

- A few days after, he told me about a split that had occurred 
in the Bible Society. The society was composed of men*of 
several denominations, and its object was, to send Bibles, 
printed directions to find the road to Jerusalem, as a means of 
converting the heathen. I believe it was Dr. Judson, a Baptist 
missionary in the East Indies, who concluded to translate the 
Bible into a native language ; and* when he came to the word 
baptize^ he rendered it, to immerse^ or dip. This is one of 
the six significations of the Greek verb, and it is probably the 
primary sense. It means to wash ; — and people then did not 
wash by halves, as they do now. This liberty taken by the doc- 
tor made the society very mad ; and the Baptists, who, of 
course, sustained the new rendering, formed a S9ciety of their 
own. 

How do you baptize .? asked my master. 

By pouring. 

But does not baptize mean immerse ? 

I have heard that it does. But it cannot be necessary to do 
it in that way, because, then, baptism would sometimes be 


216 


simply Impossible, which is a monstrous thing, for it is neces- 
sary to salvation. Water is not always plenty ia some coun- 
tries. In deserts, or in prisons, it is always very scarce. The 
Church knows precisely what Christ meant^ when he told us 
that, unless we are born of w’ater and the Holy Ghost, we can- 
not go to heaven. She teaches that it can be performed by 
sprinkling, by pouring, and by immersing. She did formerly 
immerse. Now, the Latin Church only pours. 

But Christ was dipped. Ought we not to do as he did ? 

Yes, if the Church commands or advises you to do so. 
She is a better judge of these matters than any of us. 

But there is the plain language of the Bible. 

What does it say } 

That he went into the water, and came out of the water. 

That proves nothing. If we are bound, not only to do what 
he commanded us, but also to do just what he did, and in the 
way he did it, where are we to stop } Why don’t you wear 
a seamless coat } Why do you not go into the desert, and fast 
forty days, before you are baptized .? And, to speak of still 
weightier matters, why do you not do what he tells you to do ? 
Why do you not anoint your head and wash your face, when 
you fast.^ If a man takes your coat away from you, why do 
you prosecute him } why do you not give him also your cloak ? 
Why do you swear, even in a hall of justice, when he says, Let 
your speech be. Yea, yea ; Nay, nay r If your right eye scan- 
dalizes you, why not pluck it out i Why do not your ministers 
do without money, and have only one coat } For he commanded 
all these things to be done. Why do you break the Sabbath, 
and keep the first day of the week } For here you break one 
of the ten commandments. Why do you eat blood puddings, 
and things strangled, contrary to the express commandment 
of the apostles } Now, you lay great stress upon a thing you 
were not commanded, or even advised^ to do ; so much so, that 
you split from other sects on this point alone. And you neg- 
lect the things you were- expressly commanded to do. You 
transgress without a sljpdow of reason ; because nowhere in 
the Bible are those commandments made of no effect. 

A few Spanish pirates had been apprehended, tried, and con- 
demned to die. They were attended by a Spanish priest; 
and, after receiving the last sacraments, they died penitent. 
The priest, who heard their confessions, stood near the scaffold, 
and when the drop fell, he is said to have exclaimed, Span- 
iards, ascend to heaven ! 


2J7 


Do you suppose, asked my master, that they went to 
heaven ? 

God knows. 

Well, if they really repented, no doubt their chance is good. 
But if the priest had not been there, what then ? 

You have just said it. If they were deprived of the aid 
of a priest, and if they really repented, their chance would 
have been good. 

Does confession do any good without repentance } 

It does harm. 

And' true repentance will save a sinner who does not con- 
fess ? 

It can. 

Then what on earth makes you go to so much trouble, when 
it will do to go straight to God ? 

I did not say that, precisely. We can be sorry for sin 
because we love God, and we can be sorry for it because we 
are afraid of hell. This last does not remit sin. Confession 
remedies it. How the penitential grace does so, is not to the 
present purpose. It is enough that sorrow of this sort cannot 
open the gates of heaven. The other sorrow can, and always 
does. But it is necessary to submit the sin to the tribunal of 
confession. A verdict of not guilty, agreed to in the jury- 
room, saves the life of the prisoner; but the law requires that 
the verdict shall be announced in the court, and recorded. 
The parallel is not exact, but it shows what I mean. For per- 
fect sorrow includes the intention of confessing at the first 
opportunity. You see, then, that forgiveness of sin mainly 
depends upon sorrow, and a purpose of amendment ; and you 
see how false are- the notions which Protestants commonly 
entertain regarding our doctrine in this matter. Now, if a 
man have this true sorrow, and if he cannot make his confes- 
sion, he dies a Christian death. The difference between a 
dying Christian who has this true sorrow, and one who has 
the other, is simply this : the first is saved without any miracle ; 
and the second, if he be saved, is saved in consequence of a 
miracle, an extraordinary grace, which changes his sorrow 
from imperfect to perfect. But sin repented of in either way 
must be confessed by every man who is not really unable t© 
do so, or it is not forgiven. 

True sorrow is the first thing necessary to gain forgiveness. 
It may be of very different grades ; it may be weak, it may 
be strong, — so strong as to break the heart of the penitent 

19 


218 


fts it has done more than once. But it must be true ; that is, 
it must come from the motive of love. Now, the man who 
really repents, but simply because he fears hell, has not this 
true sorrow. Confession is necessary to him ; firstly, because 
» it is commanded ; and then, because the grace received will 
make his sorrow, certainly in kind, and perhaps in degree, 
what it needs to be. The man who repents truly, and because 
he loves God, must be forgiven under any dispensation, for the 
natural law requires it. But, although Christ could not abolish 
a precept of .the natural law, he could and can annex condi- 
tions, which must be fulfilled before the law shall have effect. 
In the present case, he annexed the condition of confession 
Confession is, then, necessary to every sinner who is physi- 
cally able to comply with the duty. God’s minister must 
pronounce the sentence on earth, before it be ratified in heaven. 
In the case of the pirates, and of other dying Catholics, the 
priest does not attend only to hear confessions, as you seem to 
suppose. The poor soul must receive the viaticum — the 
last communion, and the sacrament of extreme unction. 
There are several other duties to be performed, for the pastor 
who is sent never loses sight of a soul from its entrance into 
the world unto its departure for the next. 

Tell me one thing. You say that the sentence of the 
priest is necessary, that sin may be remitted. 

Certainly. 

Is the priest infallible } 

•'No. 

Well, what becomes of his sentence, if some one comes, 
\ and shams sorrow — confesses for the sake of a joke } Is 
the sin remitted } 

Of course it is not. But such a case can hardly happen. 
The penitent commonly comes of his own accord, and ac- 
cuses himself. 

Must all sins be confessed i 

All grievous ones that are remembered after a fair exami- 
nation. 

Well, if a man keeps back owe, what then? 1 want to 
know precisely how it is that the priest, who sits, as you say, 
in the place of God, and whose sentence is recorded in heaven, 
gives absolution either to a man who shams confession, or who 
keeps back a sin. On the one hand, he is wo^ absolved, be- 
cause he is impenitent. On the other hand, he is absolved, 
because the sentence is {) renounced. 


219 


Stiffly put. The objection would have more force if the 
chair of confession were like earthly tribunals, which can bring 
witnesses, and employ every possible means of ascertaining 
whether the prisoner be guilty or not. They never rely upon 
the word of the prisoner. But in confession, it is exactly the 
reverse. The penitent is his own accuser and witness. I 
have told you that nothing whatever, not death, if it could be 
inflicted a thousand times, can open the mouth of a priest, 
and make him reveal the secrets of confession. Well, and 
he has no means of knowing, in confession, any thing about the 
periitent, excepting what he hears then and there. He decides 
upon what he is told. If the person tells a wilful lie, or if he 
have no sorrow whatever for his sins, all the sentences in the 
world would not absolve him from sin. 

And that is just my difficulty. What becomes of the sen- 
tence which is ratified in heaven ? 

It is not ratified in heaven. Only that sentence is ratified 
which is pronounced upon a repentant sinner. The sentence 
is always equal to its office, which is, to absolve the truly pen- 
itent. Suppose that the jury bring in the prisoner guilty, and 
the judge declare that he is acquitted. Would this sentence 
of the judge be worth any thing Would it have any effect ? 

Certainly not. 

Well, bearing in mind that an acquitted prisoner is inno- 
cent, and a verdict against him makes him guilty in the eye 
of the law, I ask whether the judge has not a right — is it not 
his duty — to pass sentence upon the one found guilty, and to 
pronounce the acquitted one innocent ? 

No doubt of it. 

And his sentence would have full effect in both cases ? 

Yes. 

Well, his sentence is always equal to its appointed work. 
So is that of the priest. Its work is to absolve a repentant 
soul, and it always does it. Before it can have effect, two 
things must be done by the sinner. He must repent of his 
sin, and he must confess it sincerely. The performance of 
these two conditions puts the soul in a state to receive absolu- 
tion. It is not capable of receiving it, unless these be at- 
tended to. So your objection amounts, in the first place, to 
the false supposition that what the priest says in absolving is 
written in heaven as a sentence which must have its effect, 
whether the sinner be penitent or not. It also amounts to a 
censure upon the priest for not doing that which he was not 


220 


BCnt to do. He was sent to absolve the truly penitent. He 
always does it. The confessional is not a tribunal of ven 
geance, but of mercy. It is a place where only repentant 
sinners have any room, or any right whatever to come. A 
perfectly innocent soul, or a wilfully impenitent one, has no 
place in it. Our blessed Savior established it only for those 
who are guilty, and who are sorry for their sin. He gave only 
powers to be used there for the benefit of such. It is true 
that this sacrament can be mocked ; it is true that it can be 
profaned. But that is true of every other sacrament. Our 
Lord knew it well when- Judas ate of the Body and drank of 
the Blood. For the rest, a wilfully impenitent sinner has no 
more business there than a murderer, whose crime is neither 
known or suspected, has in the prisoner’s dock. No judge, 
jury, or lawyer would know what to do with him. Although 
he be a murderer, he can neither be tried, sentenced, or ac- 
quitted. For there are no witnesses. In every tribunal, there 
must be a judge, a prisoner, and a witness. If either of 
these three be wanting, there can be no trial. You agree to ^ 
that, don’t you ? 

Certainly. 

Well, that is the difficulty in the case we are considering. 
The sinner must be at once accuser and witness. There is 
the judge. There is the accuser. But there is no witness ; 
so there is no trial. There is no witness, for a false witness 
is no witness, even in a court of law, and eminently so in the 
court of conscience. There is the mockery of a trial, which 
only brings deeper damnation upon the sinner. 

Well, but how do you prove that confession is necessary .? 

I understand that your Church teaches that it is only a true 
penitent who is fc«»given; and that it is only God, after all, 
who pardons ; but it seems to me that it is a useless practice. 

It is enough for us that the Church commands it. 

Then you own that you have no Scripture authority for the 
custom ? 

Indeed, I do not. 

Where is it, then 

Receive ye the Holy Ghost ; Whose sins ye shall remit, 
are remitted ; and again. Whatsoever thou shalt bind upon 
earth, shall be bound in heaven ; with the rest. 

Yes, but that is no proof. This remitting of sin referred 
to a Jewish custom of declaring a man legally purified. 

'VVait a moment. There is scarcely a text of Scripture 


221 


that cannot be twisted in many ways. Some one has com* 
pared it to a fiddle, which can be made to play any tune. 
The comparison is not very reverent, bat it is very apt. The 
sentence, This is my body, is made up of four words, and 
tliose four words have been tortured by heretics into no less 
than two hundred different meanings. Hence St. Peter was 
directed to condemn private interpretation, and to give the 
reason ; which is, that the Scriptures are hard to be under- 
stood, and are wrested by private interpreters to their own 
perdition. St. Peter condemns what you are doing now. I 
do not like to see the Scriptures illtreated, and there are few 
Protestants who do not illtreat them. Scoffing Protestants — 
and they are the majority — abuse them by openly mocking 
them. Your boys learn to do that at school. Serious Protes- 
tants abuse them by quoting them flippantly, to justify their 
religious whims. I do not know which abuse is the most 
sinful. I do know that both parties wrest them to their own 
destruction. I know it, because the Church teaches me so. 

Thank you for the compliment. But is not its language 
often clear St. Paul expressly says. Let a man prove himself. 
And the Savior tells us to go directly to the Father, and say, 
Forgive us our debts ! and St. Paul 

Stop ! if you please. What book are you quoting } 

Why, the Bible. 

Answer one question. Do you admit the infallible authority 
of the Roman Catholic Church } 

God forbid ! 

Do you think that there is any thing which you believe as 
God’s truth, that rests only on the authority of this Church, 
and cannot be proved without it } 

No, nothing, nothing ! 

If there should turn out to be such a thing, would you be 
willing to submit to her authority } 

Perhaps 1 might think of it. But what are you aiming at ? 

I will show you that you Protestants have no such thing as 
a Bible ; and that among the delusions with which Protestant- 
ism abounds, there is no one* more hopeless than the notion 
that you, as Protestants, ever had a Bible, ever will, or ever 
can have one. 

Gracious mercy ! how you talk ! 

Well, let us see if I tell the truth. I do not mean to deny 
that you are in the habit of passing round a book which you 
call the Bible. You talk a great deal about it ; some of you 
19* 


222 


cannot say a common sentence without quoting it. You all 
pretend great reverence for it, which some of you really feel. 
But the greater part of you abuse it shamefully, as I have 
shown. Your children make fun of it, your most learned 
ministers say that it contains lies. But withal you pretend to 
prize it so much, that you make it the foundation of your 
whole system. I trust you will own that a house which is built 
upon a sham foundation will tumble. 

O, yes. Go ahead ! 

Well, and you will own, also, that if this book be not the 
word of God, your house is built upon a sham foundation } 

All right ! 

Very good. Now, I beseech you to show that it is really 
the word of God. You all say that it is, and you ought to 
have some reason for saying so. The more reason, for 
your whole scheme of religion rests upon the real or supposed 
fact that this book is God’s word. Nay, you have staked 
your hopes of salvation upon it. You must have very weighty 
reasons, such as remove all possibility of doubt. 

So we have. It is the oldest book. It is the wisest book. 
It is the most beautifully written book. It contains the purest 
morality. Why, you astonish me with your question. We 
know that it is the word of God. 

I have heard those arguments before. Dr. Spring has writ- 
ten a book which says all that can possibly be said by Protes- 
tants to prove that the book is divine. He says nothing which 
cannot be found in the most common Catholic treatise on the 
general evidence for a belief in the divine origin of the book 
The best argument he brings is drawn from the stern morality 
of the Bible. No human teacher ever would teach the ne- 
cessity of humbling and overcoming our own selves, as that 
book tells us to do. No human master could induce men to 
listen to such lessons, much less to practise them. But such 
lessons are taught, listened to, and reduced to practice. 

Well, what more do you want ? 

A great deal ; because, when all this is done, no practical 
end is gained. If we do no more than this, we have, it is 
true, a book which we can hold in our hands and say, Here is 
a book which, taken as a whole y is the word of God. But we 
cannot use any one part of that book as the word of God. 
We can reverence it, if we never open it. But we can never 
say of any one part of it what we can say of it as a whole. 


223 


And 60 it is of no use to us. We can read it, it is true. But 
we cannot read it as the word of God. 

I cannot see that. If I hold in my hand a book which I 
can say is the word of God, why cannot I read it as such } 
Any book can be read, A book of the word of God can be 
read, then. The book we venerate is not made up of leather, 
paper, and characters. It is made up of words, sentences, 
and chapters. The whole of any thing is made up of parts. 
If you can eat a whole apple, of course you can eat part of 
it. If I have the whole Bible, I have every part. And if 
the whole Bible be the word of God, of course every part of 
it is. And upon the whole Bible, and upon every part of it, 
we build our religion. You have not dug up its foundation 
yet. In fact, you have owned every thing. You own that 
we have the whole Bible, and that is all we want. 

I owned no such thing. I admitted that we can arrive at 
the conclusion that the book, taken as a icTiole^ contains a part 
of the word of God. This conclusion would not be an act 
of faith, but a logical inference. I will show you what you 
are wondering at. Take any one chapter, or any one verse, 
from any part of this book ; take it from Genesis, or take it 
from the Epistles. I do not care from whence. Prove that 
that chapter, or that vei-se, is the word of God. I make this 
offer. If you will do that, and if I, after reflection, or after 
consultation, cannot disprove it, I will go to meeting with you 
next Sunday, and thenceforth. Now, you have a chance to 
convert a Papist. Try ! Take any one verse you like, and 
show any reason for saying that it was truly inspired by God. 

Why, of course it was. It is in the hook. The whole is God’s 
word. Then every part is. A verse is a part of it. Then 
every verse is God’s word. Come, there is a seat all ready 
for you in my pew. Don’t fly off the handle ! 

No, I won’t. Alas ! that is the only answer that even the 
most learned Protestant can give, when he is asked to show 
that any one verse is inspired. Here is where your argument 
fails. You say that if the whole is the word of God, every 
part of it must be. But none of you can ever show that the 
whole really is the word of God. It is one thing^to say that 
a whole book is the word of God, and it is quite another thing 
to say that the book contains the whole, or a part, of the word 
of God. The book may be corrupted. Parts may be 
removed. Things may be added to it. Now, if you hold in 
your hand a book which you have reason to believe contains 


224 


the word of God, but which has been corrupted^ added to, 
diminished, and otherwise abused, and if you have no means 
of knowing where the corruptions and additions are, it neces- 
sarily follows that any chapter, or any verse, may be a cor- 
ruption, or an addition. Then you cannot use any chapter, 
or any one verse m it ; because you have no means of as- 
certaining whether the chapter or the verse you want to use 
be the word of God or the word of sinful man. Therefore, 
to you the Bible is a sealed hook. You Protestants falsely say 
of us a thing which is true of yourselves. Thieves some- 
times raise the cry of Stop thief! against an innocent man, in 
order to divert suspicion from themselves. It is true, then, 
that you have no means of showing that any one verse of the 
book you call the Bible is inspired. 

But there are learned commentators, men who understand 
languages. 

Oho ! You pin your faith upon commentators, do you r* 
men who own that they are liable to err, and in fact do err 
frequently ? You rest your hopes of salvation upon the 
chance that this or that man has studied the Greek and Hebrew 
grammars well, and has good dictionaries upon his shelves. 
Sir, sir, never accuse the Catholics of pinning their faith to 
the sleeves of men ! If you all do not place your whole hopes 
of salvation upon men, no class of mortals ever did ! 

But if it is so hard for us to find what is inspired, and what 
is not, you must be in the same predicament. 

I will show you directly why we are not. In the mean time, 
observe that in the early ages of the Church, this very diffi- 
culty beset particular churches. There were many spurious 
gospels and epistles in circulation. You remember that I 
showed you a book containing some of -them, not long ago ? 

Yes. 

Well, every one of these was regarded as canonical in one 
quarter or another. There were as many different Bibles as 
there were churches ; I had almost said, as there were leaders. 
St. Augustine and St. Jerome testify that there was scarcely 
a man who knew how to write, that did not copy the book for 
himself. And mistakes, omissions, and doubtfully writteri 
characters,' made variations in the book numberless. Then 
the heretics of those days were mostly subtle Greeks, and 
they corrupted every copy they could lay their hands upon. 
Particular churches and ffithers quoted, as Scripture, books 
which were not canonical, and omitted books which were 


225 


All this confusion was in the early ages — in times when the 
original copies were yet in existence. St. Jerome did not give 
us the Vulgate an hour too soon. 

But the original copies are now lost, lost centuries ago. If 
it was difficult for a man to say what was Scripture, and what 
was not, when the original copies were yet in existence, how 
frightfully did the mischief increase when those copies were 
lost, and when there was in the world nothing to be seen by 
the commentator but a numberless host of books, purporting 
to be Bibles, of which scarcely any two were alikey and of 
which some were full of additions ; others diminished by 
erasures of verses, chapters, whole books ; others corrupted 
in every page, almost in every sentence ! What loas to be 
done } Why, the various readings only, if they were gath- • 
ered together in one library, would give a learned commen- 
tator more than he could do to barely examine them, even in 
his whole lifetime. What was the result of this } Why, 
the result was, that men who were not dutiful children of the 
Church, found it impossible to say what was Scripture, and 
what was not. It was impossible for a heretic to say whether 
any one verse of the Bible were the word of God, or the word 
of man. The Bible became to Protestants a sealed book. 

The version which you use is King James’s Bible. It is 
well known that the most learned Protestants own that it is 
full of corruptions. Ward’s Errata enumerates more than a 
thousand. Moreover, you have taken away from the Word. 
You have set aside whole books of Scripture, because they 
do not suit you ; just as Luther set aside the -Epistle of St. 
James. This is the reason why the Church does not allow us 
to read the book which you call the Bible. It is not the 
word of God. It takes away from His word. It adds to it. 

It corrupts it. It would be strange if she did allow it, when 
no one of you can take any verse and show that it is inspired. 

No one of you can show it ! If any of your ministers 
doubt it, let them try. Let them take an easy verse ; let 
them take the seventh verse of the fifth chapter of the First 
Epistle of John, and show that it was inspired. If they get 
puzzled, let them go to Andover, and hear one professor say 
that it isy and another that it is not. In fact, Cochlasus settled 
that matter for his fellow-Protestants, long ago. If they do 
not like to touch this verse, let them try any other; it is all 
the same. I mention that verse, because their attention has 
been called to it repeatedly. They have wasted more ink 


226 


upon it than upon any other verse of the Bible ; so they are 
prepared for a discussion upon it. 

No one of you can take any verse of the Bible, and show 
whether it is the word of God, or the word of bewildered 
man. Why, look at it. Luther began by striking out the 
Epistle of St. James. Then you rejected whole books, be- 
cause you chose to call them apocryphal. Next you defaced 
the book with a host of corruptions. Then you stopped for a 
century or two. At last the art of criticism was taught in the 
schools. The learned commentators, the men who understood 
the learned languages, the men upon whose critical knowledge 
hangs your whole scheme of religion, and with it your 
hopes of salvation, — men who were not avowed atheists, but 
.learned and pious ministers of your congregations, — began 
to submit your Bible to the new light of criticism. And fine 
work they have made of it. They took your Bible, defaced 
and corrupted as it was, and reformed it in the wrong sense. 
They struck out verses, chapters, books^ Now^ they have 
found that there is a way to shorten their labor. They deny 
that the book is inspired at all. They say that it is no more 
the word of God than is the poetry of Shakspeare or of 
Schiller. Many of them say that it is not so much. They 
all agree that it is full of mistakes. , They say that some of 
the authors were very ignorant creatures. They will show 
you that the book contains formal lies. And the same lan- 
guage is repeated in Boston. Not in avowed infidel circles. 
No, but in Protestant pulpits. You thought, not long ago, that 
Abner Kneeland ought to be imprisoned for tossing the Bible 
across his hall, and calling it a vile book. Your ministers 
stand up before enlightened congregations, and do worse. 

You asked me, just now, in what we Catholics have the ad- 
vantage in this respect. I will tell you in a word. We can 
take any verse of the Bible, and know, beyond the possibility 
of a doubt, that it is the word of God. The Bible only con- 
tains a p^t of his word. He gave it to His Church to keep. 
She is guided by the Holy Ghost in all truth. She is an 'in- 
fallible guide to us and to you. And she is the only one that 
can keep the word of God uncorrupted, because she was 
authorized by God to do so. Very well ; she puts the book 
into our hands, and then we know that it is God’s word. 
Here is the only authority that can decide what is inspired 
and what is not. And so, when you are scattering the word 
to the four winds, her children never think of doubting after 


227 


she has spoken. Where her authority is denied, there has 
always been confusion and hopeless doubt. Where it is 
owned, there is infallible certainty. You had better own her 
authority, then. 

The fact is, you Protestants do own her infallible authority 
in your acts, while you deny it in words. You are petty deal- 
ers, who pretend to trade on your own account, while you are 
really trading on the credit of an established house. If that 
house were to fall, the trader would be ruined. If the Church 
could fall, your destruction would be certain. Then you are 
very foolish when you attack her so savagely ; although I sup- 
pose that you know all the time that you cannot succeed ; and 
the last thing you would do, if you thought you could do her 
harm, would be to attack her; unless, indeed, you were bent 
upon suicide. You* attack her to throw dust into people’s 
eyes ; to make them think that you are trading upon your 
own credit. You break the Sabbath, and keep Sunday holy, 
because you really think that it is lawful. But for this per- 
suasion you have no support but that of her infallible authority. 
iTou probably think that the Bible is the word of God. 1 
mean you who call yourselves evangelicals. You place con- 
fidence in every verse. And in this persuasion, also, you 
have nothing to lean upon but her infallible authority. You 
were wrong, when I asked you whether you admitted it, to 
say, God forbid ! And in this Bible question, you own her 
authority in a matter in which she has exerted it with a vigor 
greater than that which she has shown in many dogmas which 
you deny. There are few questions more obscure and entan- 
gled to a human eye than this question, in. which you wholly 
trust to her infallible authority. The question of confession, or 
of transubstantiation, is nothing to it. If she ever needed her 
infallible authority, she needed it here. Then, if you admit that 
authority in one thing, why not in another } Infkllibility is of 
such a nature that it must be wholly present, or wholly absent. 
The Church is neither fallible nor infallible on merely human 
questions, because these were not left for her decision, and 
she never pretends to decide them. But if she be infallible in 
deciding upon any one revealed truth, — and you see by this 
time that she must be, — she must be infallible in deciding 
upon all of them. For infallibility is the privilege of decid- 
ing, with absolute certainty and authority^ what was revealed 
by Christ, and what was not. It is clear that no one but 
Christ could have bestowed such a privilege. And when He 


228 


did, He gave it forever, and for all disputed questions in mat- 
ters of faith. Go, said He, and teach all nations whatsoever 
1 have commanded you. 

One thing is noticeable. You call us benighted Papists for 
trusting to this infallible authority. Now, I have shown that, 
in two cases at least, you rely upon it blindly. And if you 
do that, you also, in an implicit sense, trust it in every thing 
else. That is, the trust you repose in it, in those cases, flows 
from a principle that would make you trust it in every thing 
else., if you would carry out the principle fairly. For you know 
that he who offends the law in one point, offends in all. That 
is because one principle is involved in every breach of the 
law — the principle of disobedience. Very well. The truth is 
essentially One. It follows, then, that whoever is infallible in 
deciding upon one portion of the truth, must be so in judging 
of the whole. And who receives one portion of truth from 
infallible authority, receives, in an implicit sense, all of it 
from the same authority. That is, he receives the portion on 
a principle that ought to make him receive all. Who would 
have suspected it } You, enlightened evangelical Protestants, 
turn out to be nothing but blind, benighted Papists, after all ! 
blinder than the other Papists, because you trust to infallible 
authority in cases where it has been exercised with the great- 
est vigor ; blinder than the other Papists, because, whil^ you 
admit that authority in its fullest extent every time you work 
on Saturday, and every time you open the Bible, you stoutly 
deny it in words. 

Curious, isn’t it, that Protestantism is atheistical and Popish 
at the same time } that it should so embrace two opposite 
poles ? For we have seen that it is atheism disguised ; that 
it is a woman pregnant with infidelity, and eight months and 
three quarters gone ; and, at the same time, that Protestants 
are trading so busily on borrowed credit, are so blindly trust- 
ful to the infallible authority of the Church, that they actually 
outpapist the Papists ; so much so, that they ought to Ibe 
called Popish Papists. 

To return, then : there is no one verse of the Bible that you 
can point to, and show whether it is the word of God or the 
word of man. 

I don’t think that I shall go to your meeting next Sunday. 

And I tell you another thing : I have been with you three 
years, and I like you well enough to stay thirty years, only 1 
am afraid that I shall never learn this trade. But if I remain 


229 


with you three hundred, I cannot consent to your quoting the 
Bible against me, for you have no right to do so, and I shall al- 
ways protest against it. When you quote a sentence, I shall stop 
you, and require you to show that the sentence is God’s word. 

Well, its odd ! said my master. First we are atheists 
Next we are Papists. Finally we are both. What next ? 

That is because Protestantism is a riddle, a bundle of con- 
tradictions. If I ever get to be a Protestant pope, or leader 
as Channing is, I will move for a change of name. It is a 
square round society, that is pledged to two-and-two-make-five ! 


CHAPTER VIII. 

JOHN GETS DISGUSTED WITH HIS TRADE. FIREMEN. MIU* 

TARY COMPANIES. TEA-PARTIES. APPRENTICES’ LIBRARY. 

MARY HELPS TO MAKE HIM UNDERSTAND THE PART 

WHICH NATURE MEANT FOR HIM. 

The last chapter is a story of disputes about religion. I 
have not lugged it in by the head and horns ; for every one, 
who is familiar with the mechanics of Boston, knows that in 
their shops a stray Catholic has little peace, if he be a silent 
man or boy. If he he disposed to talk, he will have quite 
enough on his hands. Scarcely a day passes that does not 
witness a dispute, and it often ends in a noisy quarrel, some- 
times in a fight. Protestants are often so foul-mouthed, and 
almost always so unreasonably ignorant, that an irascible 
Catholic is in a constant fume. I have given an account of a 
small part of my experience in the last chapter. 

I wish that I had been as fond of going to my duties as I was 
ready to defend them. But I worked with Protestants, and lived 
with them, while my Catholic life was confined to an hour or 
two at church on Sundays. Under these circumstances, I be- 
came again careless. I saw and heard little to remind me of 
my Church, unless when a dispute turned up ; and disputes 
about religion never begat any piety in me. I don’t believe 
they ever did in any one else. They are occasions of sin. 

I began to frequent theatres. That is, I thought that I 
might treat myself to a play, once a month or so. I have 
little good to say of them. They are pits dug with the 
20 


230 


devil’s own hands. I do not mean to say that they are neces- 
sarily so, for they are not. There is no harm done when a 
man represents on a stage the person of another, and is 
helped by dresses, scenery, and music. The theatre might 
be what it is so often falsely called, a school of morals, and 
of good ones, too. It is very possible that the witnessing cer- 
tain plays would do no harm. But it is so managed, that it is 
a school for scandal — deep scandal to souls. A good play 
will not draw a house unless a worse than naked woman 
exposes her person in a suggestive dance ; unless a lewd song 
be sung, or an immoral farce be added to the bill. Vile 
characters are often represented in a way that makes them 
look quite inviting ; and real virtue is not seldom hissed, it is 
shown in such unfashionable colors. In a word, the little 
good is so mixed with the bad, and in the ratio of one to ten, 
that you cannot witness it alone. You must take nine doses of 
corruption to get one scene of harmless amusement. An in- 
nocent representation in. a theatre is like an oasis in a great 
desert — you faint before you reach it. This is especially 
true in these latter years. There was a time when the so 
called legitimate drama could draw houses. Now, the public 
taste has become grossly corrupt. And it is not the least 
evil of the theatre that it brings you into the very presence 
of her whose feet lay hold of hell. A man has to risk some- 
thing who goes after her to her own dwelling. But in a 
theatre, he can leave his wife or his sister in the box, and go 
to the galleries, and there is no one to hiss, or to say that he 
has done a vile deed. 

I used to select the plays I wanted to see with some care ; 
but everyone who knows any thing about theatres will agree 
with me that no pains can ward off the evils to which a thea- 
tre-goer surely exposes himself. He cannot help seeing and 
hearing things that are sinful. There is one fact, of which I 
have thought sometimes, that I cannot understand. More th^n 
once I have thought of my prayers in the theatre, and have 
said them, too. I wonder if it was ever done before } And 
I wonder what the prayers were worth } 

My master set his face against it ; and very properly, too. He 
said that he had no wish whatever to force his religion upon me. 
But as for theatre-going, my Church discountenanced it as 
much as his did ; so I should not go. He made such a vigorous 
opposition, that I promised not to go while I remained with him. 

By some miracle or other, I escaped a danger that besets 


231 


almost every young man in a Boston boarding-house. That 
was the danger of being enrolled in an engine company. 
The tubs were served in those days by volunteers, and the 
young men were what would be called choice spirits. They 
were generally young tradesmen. They were good fellows^ 
in the common acceptation of the term. They were well 
drilled in the work of putting out a fire. They seemed to 
know precisely where it was, and they would run by the 
straightest road to it. When they got there, they behaved 
like salamanders ; they acted as if they were born in places 
where fire was plenty. They would risk their lives to save 
property or persons from the flames. In a word, they worked 
at a fire like generous fellows who were fond of the excite- 
ment. After they put it out — and it was not their fault if it 
were not subdued — they would have a good time. 

The excitement which attends the duty of a fireman brought 
many young men to the engine-house ; and when they were 
in it, there was a charm to keep them there. It was a good 
rendezvous for evenings, and especially for Sundays, which 
were spent there by many young men. There were target 
excursions, balls, suppers, and parties.' There were always 
some prime fellows who would tell a story well, and crack a 
nice joke. It was a pleasant road to ruin, and many a youth 
has walked therein. 

I was often asked to join them ; but I never went to fires, 
and I was not sure that I would always obey the call at night. 
Besides, I saw young men every day becoming more and more 
in love with the tub ; and, as their liking for its haunt increased, 
their taste for work grew less. Many an hour was spent 
there that ought to have been employed in getting bread to 
eat for soul and body. The examples I had before my eyes 
seemed to prove that the engine-house was no place fora man 
who had the least desire of salvation. I was never in the 
houses more than twice, and each time it was Sunday. There 
was quite a gathering at both. In one, I heard nothing good ; 
and in the other, a hog was telling a ribald story that would 
have disgraced a brothel. In fact, I was convinced that going 
to an engine-house, in practice, meant — going to the devil. 

But, in avoiding Scylla, I struck upon Charybdis ; and that 
was a military company. In Boston, a man must do the state 
some service, even if he ruin himself in doing it. Every on« 
must be a military man, or an engine man, a militia man, or 
he must pay a small fine. Now, I eschewed engine-houses 


232 


bat I was not satisfied to let well-enough alone, and pay my 
fine. 

For I had read of battles ! 

And I longed, not exactly to follow a chief, but to be one, and 

lead armed men to muster. When T was six years old, 

I had a nice belt, sword, and feather ; and I remember one 
artillery election day, when 1 walked guard, — for the soldier 
let me pass, — and marched up to the place where the gov- 
ernor and his attendants were sitting. After putting my 
head in the mouth of a cannon to see where the fire came 
from, and hearing the touch-master-general say that if I did 
that again I would have my head blown to the top of the State 
House, I heard the music play a beautiful air slowly. I was 
then walking towards the governor. 

Presently an officer, who was so stiff with gold and tassels 
that he could hardly move, started from his post, in front of 
the company, and began to march up to the governor, very 
slowly, and very grandly. I thought that I could march as 
well as he did ; so I threw out my legs at each step, as if I 
wanted to fall backwards, held my head up, and balanced my 
sword as he did his pike. He came straight to the front, and 
1 reached the settee as soon as he did. The governor and 
his attendants laughed so heartily, that I was afraid something 
would happen to them. I saw nothing to laugh at, neither 
did the officer ; so we both looked grave. 

General, said the governor, is this young officer going to 
command the company next year ? 

I don’t know, your excellency, said the general — a fine 
white-haired soldier. He looks as if he would not wait to be 
asked twice. 

What is your name ? asked the governor. 

John O’Brien. 

Do you want to be captain of that company yonder ? \ 

I reflected a moment. I’ll ask father ; and if he won’t let 
me. I’ll enlist. 

Well, said he, hold this. And I stood near him, holding 
the pike, until the cannon roared, the band played, and 
another officer marched up as grandly as the first, and tooK 
the weapon. 

, The common, on public days, was the boys’ paradise, of 
course. I like to go there now, on such days, and see the 
little fellows capering as I did in by-gone times. The only 


thing that could tempt me to play truant was the sight of a 
company marching along. It cost a hard struggle to get rid 
of the temptation ; and, to this day, the spectacle has not 
lost its attraction. I would march after the Brigade Band a 
mile, and then after the Brass Band another. 

Well, I attended the militia training twice, and got heartily 
tired of what I saw and heard. I told my master 4;hat I would 
be a military man, and walk in the pathway to glory. 

It is no place for you, you may depend upon it, said he. 
You will get into bad company, and perhaps contract bad 
habits. I was fool enough to join them in my younger days ; 
but, after a while, I saw the folly of it. 

Well, I can’t help it. I must be a fool, too, and see the 
folly of it for a year or two. And so I did. 

The military school in Boston was no better than the fire- ' 
man’s school. The same sort of boys go to both, and for the 
same purpose. The main difference is, that one likes the 
excitement of a fire, while another prefers the excitement of 
wearing a colored coat, and marching under the admiring eyes 
of smaller, but not younger boys, after a band of musicians. 
There is also this difference : the soldiers have fewer meet- 
ings ; they never aSvSemble on Sundays; and when a meeting 
takes place on week evenings, it is always for business. So 
there is one advantage they have over the firemen ; the road 
to ruin is more slowly travelled. 

I saw the folly of it in a year or two, but not before I had 
spent more money than I could afford. A man who can 
throw away fifty dollars a year, may afford it better than I 
could. I remember a target excursion, where I came off 
third best. There were ninety shots fired, and only three 
hit the board. A tour for camp duty was another amusement. 
Its object was to make us hardy soldiers, ready to endure the 
fatigues of actual service, if the country should happen to 
need our strong, protecting arms. Accordingly, we would 
march a hundred miles or so in the cars,, and then endure 
the privations of a hotel. Sometimes we would sleep a night 
under our tents. Sleep ! no, there was no such thing ; only 
the articles of war said that we would sleep. I have often 
wondered how a drunken soldier could manage to stand in 
his place, and go through the exercise. It was a mystery to 
me ; and yet it is done. It is like another mystery which I 
have known to come off at the theatre. An actress would be 
BO drunk that she would have to be walked on the stage ; but 
20 * 


234 


when she faced the audience, she went through her part toler- 
ably well. 

At the time of the Rhode Island rebellion, when patriotism 
there was hissing hot, and when the democratesses there had 
got up a clam-bake, and had invited distinguished speakers to 
come and stir them up, — just as if a meeting of women 
needed any speakers, — our company was detailed for actual 
service. Several wanted to be discharged ; but the adjutant- 
general swore by his whiskers that they should march. I, 
for one, made my will, leaving my debts to be paid, and six 
cents, besides my uniform, to pay them with. We were 
under orders, but we did not march. The reason was, that 
Dorr only drew his sword, but his legs didn’t give his arm 
time to use it. Moreoyer, the meeting of the democratesses 
had ended in clams, tea, and talk. I am very glad we didn’t 
go. I should have hated to meet an army of those democrat- 
esses, after they had eaten their clams ; especially if they 
were all like one of them I happened to meet afterwards, and 
whom I told of our intended march. She wished that I was 
her son for a quarter of an hour ; just for a quarter of an hour ! 
She’d take me across her knees, and spank me until . 

There is a queer kind of evening party that is very much 
admired, and often got up by the Protestants of that class 
to which I belonged. I have seldom seen it among Catholics, 
unless they be Protestant Catholics, as I was. It is generally 
got up by women. It goes by the name of a tea party ; but 
the young women call it a kissing party. The end of the in- 
stitution is, that twenty or thirty young men and women, who, 
perhaps, never saw one another before, may meet together in a 
private house, and kiss one another from eight or nine in the 
evening to two or three in the morning. The ceremony begins 
thus : The ladies who give the party are waiting in the iprlor at 
eight o’clock. The first arrival is a bashful young man. It 
is the first time he ever went to a party, and he has had his 
hair curled with hot tongs. He has also taken lessons of a 
friend concerning his demeanor on entrance, and so he puts 
his left hand under his vest, and bows profoundly thrice. At 
the third bow, his pantaloons, which are new, and very tight, 
give him a hint that he has made one bow too many. So he 
sits down, and wishes that he were at home, only he is too 
bashful to ask for his hat. The next arrival dooms him to a 
ten minutes’ agony, for it is a young lady whom he never saw 
before. The hostess leaves the two to amuse themselves, 


235 


which he does by looking alternately at the clock and at tho 
door, and thinking that the young lady has fallen in love with 
him. She amuses herself with watching his motions, which 
she can safely do, because he ftever looks her vvay. By and 
by, he begins to think that she knows what he is thinking 
about, and he glows like a live coal. He screws himself to 
the point of looking at her ; but he is so slow about it, and 
shows so plainly what he is going to do, that she has time to 
pretend to be watching a bug crawling across the carpet. At 
last he is relieved by the arrival of the other guests, who 
make a very formal entrance always, and then sit down and 
say nothing. Bashful young man happens to sit in a con- 
spicuous chair ; so he shows his ease of mind by drumming a 
tattoo on his knees, and putting his legs in all sorts of positions, 
each more ungraceful than the last. It always happens at 
these parties, that they who arrive first do not know one 
another ; and a general introduction, on entering, does not 
warrant conversation. So they all sit bolt upright, and look 
at the carpet, without saying a word. It is singular what 
stress is laid upon an introduction between two parties. They 
sit side by side for half an hour without exchanging a word, 
looking as grim as if they were thinking of the best way to 
poison one another, feeling very miserable, and wishing that 
the whole concern were at the Red Sea. The hostess steps for- 
ward. Miss Tightlace, shall I make you acquainted with Mr. 
Bedpost? Then the two enemies become warm friends ; they 
make fifty affectionate inquiries concerning one another*, and 
Mr. Bedpost escorts Miss Tightlace home, promising to call 
again, and goes away thinking that he has been acquainted 
with her for a hundred years. 

More arrivals, and the girls sit on one side like a bed of 
marygolds and hollyhocks, while the men occupy the other 
like a line of onions and peppergrass. The party is all here, 
and the silence is painful. Some try to speak in whispers ; 
but every body looks that way, and they stop. This is the 
first phase of the party, and it is called — waiting for the ice 
to be broken. Every eye is fixed upon the carpet. At this 
stage of the proceedings, a serious Christian would suppose 
that it was a prayer meeting. The mistake was made once 
or twice, to my knowledge. A church member sat there, 
looking as grim as the rest, and thinking that they were all so 
still because they were expecting some one to begin. He waited 
a reasonable length of time, and, seeing no one preparing to 


236 


begin, he determined to act as leader himself. So he gave 
two or three monitoiy coughs, which made every body look 
at him. Whereupon he put on his most melancholy look ; and, 
in his “ very best double bass tones,” he said. Let us pray ! 
The ice was broken, and a roar of laughter ensued, for every 
body thought it was a joke upon their silence. He didn’t ; for 
after looking about him as if he were taking a last leave of them 
before they went to the naughty place, he took his hat and 
disappeared. 

Another serious Christian, who very properly disapproved 
of these parties, went, nevertheless, to one of them, with the 
intent to break it up. Accordingly, when every body was 
breathing hard and looking at the carpet, he spoke : Breth- 
ren and sisters, shall we meet again in heaven ? Here every 
brother and sister stared. Shall we 

Stop ! exclaimed a wag. There is always a wag at these 
parties, who does nothing but make mischief. Stop ! It’s out 
of order to preach before singing. Dear brethren, and espe- 
cially the sisters, before brother Groansoul preaches, we’ll 
sing the sixty-eleventh tune, any metre — 

“ O, I’m bound for the kingdom ! wiU you go to glory with me ? 

Hallelujah, kingdom come. 

If you get there before I do, 

Look out for me, for I’m coming too ! ” 

The disturber sloped. 

But the ice is commonly broken this wise : The hostess 
enters with the cover of a flour bucket. She gives each person 
his number, beginning with number one ; and then, giving the 
cover a twist, it spins on its edge while she calls a number — 
number seven. The number called must jump uj^ and catch 
the cover before it falls flat. If that is not done, a forfeit is 
declared, which is paid in kisses. Number seven is the bash- 
ful man, and he doesn’t understand the game ; so he sits still. 
Inquiry is made, and all eyes are turned upon him, while he 
thinks the world is afire, and all the doors locked. He is 
instructed in the game, and number seven is called again. 
He rushes to catch the cover, and he fails. A forfeit ! Go 
to any lady, and ask her what to do. He asks the lady who 
came in first and fell in love with him. Kiss all the ladies in 
the room but me. One used to the game would begin with 
her ; and she casts a comical look at him, as he goes away 
without saluting her. He does his work very much as a bear 


237 


would in hugging a cat on hot irons ; but he finishes it with* 
out tearing more than ten dollars worth of lace, and then sits 
down, and wonders which girl he will have. ^ 

This is the way, and the fun lasts until past midnight, in- 
terrupted only by a little wagging of jaws over nuts„apples, 
and cake. The most extraordinary ways for promoting for- 
feits are invented, and most laughable modes of executing 
them are enforced. After four or five hours spent in this 
fashion, the young women go away quite satisfied ; and why 
shouldn’t they, when each has had kissing enough to last a 
married woman all her lifetime ? 

It is hard to cheat the devil in a more cunning fashion than 
this, admitting that he is cheated by it, which is more than 
doubtful. I would not let rny wife run the gantlet so; neither 
would I a sister, if I had one. And if I were not married, 
the trotting out of my intended in such a fashion would induce 
me to leave her in the market. It is not innocent amusement. 
The serious man asked a very proper question, and he did not 
ask it out of season, either. 

I became a member of the Mechajiic Apprentices’ Library 
Association, shortly after my engagement with Mr. Bowen. 
I received a great deal of benefit from this institution, and a 
little damage, all my own fault. At that time the society 
occupied humble rooms in Cornhill. It has since removed to 
splendid quarters, and seems to be doing well. Its object is, 
to gather together the apprentices of Boston, and give them 
opportunities for mental improvement. They would obtain it 
better by assembling together only apprentices, because there 
would be no rivalry excepting that of talent ; no difference of 
condition would enable one to overawe another, or to push him 
aside. Each apprentice, feeling himself among equals, would 
gain far more than he would in any other society, where a 
certain distinction of rank was tacitly acknowledged and main- 
tained. No one could remain a member after the age of 
twenty-one. 

It owned a library of about a thousand volumes. It was 
not a select library, for books had slowly accumulated by way 
of donations. Yet there was enough good reading to employ 
the spare hours of a boy from his fourteenth to his twenty- 
first year. There was a large shelf for novels, and this shelf 
was the most visited, and its contents the best thumbed. There 
were several books of a very bad character ; but they were 
dry reading, and they were seldom consulted. One of them 


238 • 


« was the Age of Reason. It was not called for once in a year, 
and an incautious librarian removed it without saying any 
Ihing. As ill luck would have it, a young infidel asked for it , 
but it was not forthcoming. He complained to the society, 
and there was a long debate, in which the merits of Tom 
Paine were discussed. The consequence was, that the book 
was read by half the members before three months went by. 

The publishers of the Boston papers furnished the society 
with newspaper reading in abundance. 

We had lectures in the winter season. The beginning was 
an humble one. For a few years our past members, and a 
few of the eldest active ones, did the work. Occasionally, 
some distinguished friend would volunteer hfs services. By 
and by, the talent enlisted in our behalf increased ; and now 
the course is scarcely second to any in the city. 

An elocution class met regularly, and sometimes gave exhi- 
bitions before the society at large. The audience was made 
up of the members, their mothers, sisters, and female friends. 
But the debates gave more instruction and amusement than 
any thing else. - 

A subject would be proposed at a previous meeting, and a 
committee appointed to manage the debate at the next gather- 
ing. I have heard some poor discussions on these occasions, 
but I have also heard some good ones. It seldom happened 
that something was not said worth hearing. I have heard 
worse debates in the assemblies of bearded men. The ques- 
tions discussed were generally useful ones. But once in a 
while a queer demand would be proposed for debate — Ought 
a man to get married when he was young ? When this ques- 
tion was proposed for the next wrangle, one got up and moved 
that the ladies be excluded. This motion was lost, to the 
satisfaction of every one ; and we listened to the funniest 
debate I ever heard. For there were twelve speakers, some 
under seventeen, and none over twenty-one. 

The society was a very good school for us all. That is, it 
was the best one then oflered to a Boston apprentice. The 
good done by such associations, when they are well managed, 
is not to be estimated. It is true that they take little of the 
boy’s time, for two or three evenings in the week are not 
much. But they absorb a great part of his thoughts, and a 
boy has a great many to spare. If he happens to be an offi- 
cer of such a society, so much the better ; for he will be sure 
to devote himself to it faithfully, and more than faithfully. 


239 


He has the meeting twice a week. He has his book at 
home to read in the evening. He perhaps has his piece to 
learn for the elocution class, his part to sustain in the next 
debate, or some committee business to attend to before the 
next meeting. In one way or another, the society will en- 
gross a fair share of * his spare time and thoughts. This 
helps to keep him from the engine-house, and out of bar- 
rooms or other vile haunts. A boy of seventeen has a 
world of curious fancies in his brain ; and, if his thoughts 
do not get a safe direction, he will be likely to go astray, 
lie will seek excitement somewhere. If he gets it from a 
tolerably innocent source, so much the better for his soul and 
body. Of course, the confessional is the best and safest of 
all schools. No other can be entirely safe. But, in speaking 
of merely human means, which may be used by God in 
keeping a boy from bad company, I rank these societies 
very high. I am satisfied, in most cases, that a boy’s tastes 
run in a tolerably good direction, when he takes particular 
pleasure in going to these societies, or in seeking the company 
of honest females. The boy that does both, as a great many 
do, is in a pretty fair way, humanly speaking. It is remarkable 
what a hold these societies get upon the mind of a boy. I 
have belonged to several ; and I was an active member of a 
musical society for some years. We only met once a week ; 
but I believe that I thought of little else from Sunday morning 
to Sunday morning. It is a little laughable, too, when I think 
of it now, what great importance a boy attaches to the affairs 
of his society. The government think, and talk, and look as 
if they had upon their minds the affairs of an empire. The 
* President thinks that if a procession were got up, he ought to 
walk by the side of the president of the nation. A breach 
of the constitution is an enormity only to be equalled by the 
violation of our American instrument. The members always 
respect the assemblies too much to appear in them unless 
dressed in their best, and shaved, if they have beards,' which 
seldom happens. They call one another gentlemen, and they 
behave in a way that gives them an undoubted right to the 
name. The courtesy and good feeling always manifest at 
their meetings might be copied, with great advantage to them- 
selves, by many who have had superior means of self-culture. 
They might be copied by grave legislative assemblies ; yea, 
by tire senate of the nation. The senators are potent fathers ; 
but they are not so grave and reverend as a meeting of Bos- 


240 


ton apprentices, assembled to debate whether Jackson did 
well in removing the deposits. Master mechanics and parents 
would do well in encouraging their boys to take an active 
part in such societies ; and they ought not to grudge the time 
and money expended in them. They should only ask whether 
the society be a good one. They should take it as a starting- 
point that the boy will have excitement, at one rate or another. 
Then comes the question, Shall he go after it to the engine- 
house, the grog-shop, and the theatre ; or shall he seek it in 
the halls of these societies ? Besides, they make a man of a 
member. To be sure, this is an evil. A boy ought to be a 
hoy. The man is a man, not so much on account of his stat- 
ure, his beard, his bass voice, and his wife, as on account of 
the nature of his thoughts. The sum of these make the man» 
Well, the boyish member of these societies has very hig 
thoughts, as I said just now. I remember that this thing 
caused some astonishment to my master. I was-an officer in 
two or three societies, and I fancied that I and Daniel Web- 
ster were two great men. Sometimes, when my good master 
would give an order, or ask a question, I would be abstracted, 
and often downright saucy. He never got angry, — I never 
saw him angry ; but one day he asked after the health of 
my eldest child, and advised me to give him a flogging, if he 
were saucy. Well, this evil is almost inseparable from active 
membership in these societies. God forgive me ! I have, 
shown it in a far more august presence than that of my master. 
But I would prefer that my boy be a man than an imp of dark- 
ness. When I must suffer one of two evils, I choose the least. 

I was a member of this society about the years 1834, ’35. 
Of my associates who are living, the greater part are master 
mechanics and tradesmen ; at least two ate in the legisla- 
ture ; several have entered learned professions. No one has 
repented of the time spent in our little hall. 

There were several Catholics who belonged to the society. 
As Catholics, they suffered less from their membership than 
they would have done in any Protestant society of which I 
have any knowledge. The bad books on the shelves were 
seldom consulted ; sneers at religion were rarely heard ; and 
the subject was not often alluded to in any debate. Boys 
seldom quarrel among themselves about religion. They rarely 
mention it, unless when they hear it spoken of by men. 

Still, mixed societies always hurt a Catholic soul. If they 
do in no positive way, they will in a negative manner ; and 


241 


“ Friends and Fathers,” such men as Deacon Mills and Mr. 
Willis, prize this negative weapon highly, and seem to think that, 
on the whole, it is the best one that can be used, in the long 
run, for the perversion of Catholic children. A Catholic boy 
very often boards at his master’s house, or with Protestants. 
Then, apart from the confessional, nearly all the Catholic 
influence that is brought to bear upon the boy is confined to 
mass and vespers on Sundays. From the end of vespers on 
Sunday afternoon to the beginning of mass on the next Sun- 
day morning, he breathes nothing but Protestant air. His 
occupations at the shop, and at his boarding-house, make it 
necessary. But remember how much a boy’s mind is occu- 
pied with the affairs of any society to which he is attached. 
This occupation of the mind is a thing of a very great 
importance. It is just as easy to give it a Catholic pre- 
occupation as it is to give it a Protestant one. It is easier, 
in some respects. Your boy’s thoughts are, in the main, 
what will save or damn his soul and body. You can divert 
them from wicked haunts to the comparatively healthy resorts 
afforded by societies. You can guide them to -the healthier 
precincts of Catholic associations. The Catholics of Boston 
will suffer, if they allow any one of their societies to die. 

In my time, the Catholic apprentices were not numerous. 
Now they are. They would form a society by themselves, 
and so could the Catholic young men engaged in mercantile 
affairs. The Catholics could have their Apprentices’ Library 
and their Mercantile Institute. The large class of boys who 
are engaged in stores, without being clerks, could join the 
apprentices.. Two such societies would cost little money j 
and, if they really were Catholic societies, any sum would be 
little for their endowment. If parents and guardians only 
knew what a great thing it is, they could start a society in a 
month, and a promising one too. A rich Catholic could do 
it easily, and almost every member would be to him a step 
of a ladder reaching to heaven. There was no Catholic 
association in Boston in those days. There was one, where 
many Catholic young men used to assemble, but it was a 
mixed society ; and I believe that this circumstance was the 
strongest nail in its coffin. It is in this matter fts it is in 
nature. Mix two antagonistical elements together, and there 
will be a great hissing, and presently you have a third sub- 
stance, which is unlike the original ones ; it is neither fish, or 
flesh, or good red herring. The Catholics are in danger of 


242 


becoming Catholics of the very worst sort ; that is, I-i-b-e-r-a-1 
Catholics. The Protestants, too, become the very worst sort 
of Protestants. I mean liberal Protestants, who, on the whole, 
rather like the Catholic Church. Their patronizing tone is 
exceedingly offensive. I had rather have a ferocious Cal- 
vinist curse the Papists by the day together, than have these 
good-natured friends pat us on the back, and say that we 
may be treated as men and as Christians. Silly, sentimental 
Catholics think that these persons are very near the Church. 
No men are farther off. 

Now, these men are, of course, as respectable, in a worldly 
sense, as their Catholic associates. No doubt that some of 
them are more so. But that is not the point. 

The mischief is twofold. In the first place, there is the 
negative influence I have spoken of often at work against the 
Church. It helps considerably to make young men forget to 
go to confession. In the next place, a compromise is always 
made in debates and in lectures. Nothing really Catholic 
is heard there. Nothing palpably Protestant is heard. Like 
the Unitarian minister and the Calvinistic congregation, both 
parties agree not to hurt one another’s feelings. The pledge 
is kept, so far as the heretic is concerned ; because, as a 
Protestant, he has few or no feelings to be hurt. But the 
Catholic soul is continually exposed to outrage. For these 
societies pursue literary objects. Now, the Protestant has no 
suspicion that philosophy and the other sciences, political and 
natural, are truly dependent upon theology, and are her hand- 
maids. He thinks that they are quite independent sciences, 
and that a man can adopt any system concerning them with- 
out peril to his soul. He is confirmed in his error when he 
sees some liberal Catholics following thq^cue given by certain 
editors, and by Catholics of a doubtful class, who raise a hue 
and cry against the priests because they obey Christ, and 
warn their people also against this road to damnation. There 
is no science that cannot be studied and used by the agents 
of the devil for the ruin of souls. One would think that 
mathematics, being an exact science, ought to be an excep- 
tion to this remark. But it is not so. European professors 
of very high standing employed all their mathematical skill in 
the service of the Indian books, in which eclipses were cal- 
culated that happened before Adam was created by God. 
And a very celebrated French mathematician once amused 
himself with expressing the evidences of Christianity in alge- 


243 


braical characters ; and he reduced them all to a formula 
known in algebra as an absurd equation. It may be exj)ressed, 
in common language, by saying that twice two are equal to 
five. What science seems, at first sight, to be less connected 
with theology than physiology, with its kindred branches? 
How can a man peril his soul by studying and comparing 
the remains of men, animals, and plants ? Yet one of the 
greatest lights of this department, even Professor Agassiz, has 
been led by his observations to conclude that men do not 
come from a common slock, that they do not descend from 
one parent. He has published his views often ; and lately 
he contributed an article to a leading periodical — I believe it 
was the C/ins^iaw^Exa miner — which was a disgrace to any 
Christian writer. The doctrine that all men are descended 
from the same Adam belongs to faith ; it is necessarily con- 
nected with the dogmas concerning original sin and its 
propagation, and, through these, with the whole work of 
redemption. And an earnest Catholic, of no mean standing 
either, comes before the public, and defends this doctrine of 
Agassiz ; and, what is worse, he appears to do it in good faith. 
All this shows how deeply seated the evil is. Then there 
is geology, and a knot of kindred studies, which are being 
every where pressed into the service of heresy and infi- 
delity. 

These societies will hear lectures and debates upon scientific 
matters every season, and Catholics will learn that their 
Mother is old and crazy, and, in fact, is scarcely equal to the 
task of giving them a mass and a sermon. When she ven- 
tures to say any thing about her rights in the matter of the 
sciences, they are told that she is behind the age ; that she 
loves darkness, and opposes progress ; that she talks like an 
old fool, in short. 

These societies will hear a great deal said upon political 
matters ; and these have now become so interesting,4hat only^ 
one side of the question is listened to with patience in 
America. A man who ventures to say any thing not in favor 
of the prevailing mania, is threatened with a mob. Just so, 
because it is a mania. The late godless movements in Europe 
are admired and praised to the skies. Ay, to the skies, tor 
in this matter, as. in so many others, hell has stolen the 
language of heaven. Well, our audiences are made to sit 
and listen to men who call upon them to sympathize with 
these godless doings ; and whose doctrine, when it is reduced 


244 


to its principles, and fairly stated, is not only false, but is 
heretical and atheistical. And, to mend the matter, we have 
Irish Catholics, who set up to be public teachers, and who 
cram heresy and infidelijty, in this indirect shape, down the 
throats of the people, without reflecting that it will produce 
direct evil fruit. God help them ! they had better be digging 
in a canal at fifty cents a day. Food is food, even if it be 
sometimes unpalatable. Poison is poison, even when it is 
mixed with honey. Well, flies will be caught, until all the 
flies are dead. You can’t make them believe that what looks 
and tastes like honey will do them any harm. 

So these societies will hear historical points mooted very 
often. But our English historical literature is poisoned. 
Modern history is a grand conspiracy against the truth, as 
Guizot says. He never said a truer word in his life. Do 
you want to see how 'true it is } Get even an educated Prot- 
estant to tell you his ideas of the Catholic Church, and see 
what work he makes of it ! You see that it is no more like 
the Church, than a snow statue, which a boy is pelting with 
stones, is like the master who flogged him that morning. Go 
among Protestants in any country, — select the enlightened 
ones of New England, if you like, — and you will see the same 
gross ignorance pervading every mind. What is the cause 
of it? Why, they have read only the history which is a 
grand conspiracy against the truth. This conspiracy has been 
the main stay of Protestantism, so far. And not the least 
cause of the rapidly approaching ruin of Protestantism is the 
fact, that its votaries are just beginning to find that they and 
their fathers have been the victims of atrocious lies. 

Then, in these societies, how can there be any t7'ue discus- 
sion ? The members are pledg^ not to hurt one another’s 
feelings ; and so they pretend to avoid every topic which is 
Catholic or Protestant’. But very many subjects cannot be 
discussed without saying something which touches faith. What 
must be done ? Must these subjects be interdicted ? They 
never are. They are just the topics most commonly dwelt 
upon ; and good reason why. They are the most interesting. 
What then ? Shall the speakers get up and speak their 
mind, and then sit down, after having said nothing! This 
!s sometimes done in speeches from the throne ; but it is 
never done in a debating society. There is no help for it. 
The society will be a shop where heresy and infidelity are sold, 
wholesale and retail. The founders of the society put upon 


245 


the table its cradle and its coffin, and the coffin is under 
ground before the cradle is half worn out. 

There is but one remedy, and that is, to make such a 
society exclusively Catholic. No disrespect is meant to 
Protestants by their exclusion. They should understand that 
their active presence is utterly incompatible with the very 
existence of a Catholic society ; that both they and the 
Catholics will be likely to change, and become mongrels. 
And they need not urge that their presence is useful, in order 
that some one may be there to urge objections to Catholic 
truths. They needn’t be uneasy. They cannot produce an 
objection that has not been advanced and refuted a hundred 
times. 

I cannot help mentioning a circumstance which illustrates 
the difference between Catholic and Protestant taste. Every 
young man who reads this will remember that in one of our 
elocution books, there is a debate on the question whether 
Caesar was a great man. About twelve speakers take part in 
it. One of the speeches is of a comical cast, and, in a few 
expressions, the humor is very broadly expressed. There is 
another very long and beautiffilly-written speech. Now, this 
debate was got up in the Apprentices Library ; and every 
speaker wanted the comic piece. No one wanted to deliver 
the long speech. The same affair was got up by the Young 
Catholic Friend Society in its first, and, I am glad to add, its 
last debate. Every speaker wanted the long piece. No one 
was willing to speak the comic one. This fact is a signifi- 
cant one, but it would take us out of our way to discuss it. 
Here is what it means. Ignorant Paddies are more intel- 
lectual than enlightened heretics. I am ready to defend that 
truth at any time. If I do, I will take for my text. The fear 
of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. 

An expression made just now needs explanation. Several 
years ago, when the Young Catholic Friend Society was in 
its infancy, some members had an outside talk about the 
propriety of making the society also a literary club. No one 
wished to have a Catholic literary society, of the right kind, 
formed more than I did. But, with a great many others, I 
believed that if the scheme were adopted, the noble society 
might, in time, forget its real and paramount object. Besides, 
there was enterprise enough in the young Catholics to estab- 
lish and support a separate society. The' proper compromise 
was suggested and adopted ; a course of lectures was got up. 

21 * 


246 


This was within the legitimate scope of the institution ; and, 
what is more to the purpose, it promised to aid the society 
materially in the attainment of its grand object, and it has. 

Its course of lectures began in an humble way, but it be- 
came, in a few years, a fixed Boston Catholic fact. This 
result was to be expected in behalf of an institution which 
has labored so zealously for the Catholic boys of Boston, and 
which has done, and is doing, such a vast amount of service. 
God keep it in being ! for it would leave a very wide gap 
after it. What a vast amount of real work can be done by 
the united and persevering efforts of a few men gathered to- 
gether for a holy purpose ! 

We had Protestant lecturers in the beginning. It was a pity ; 
but, in those times, it was done for the best. The gentlemen who 
came forward gave lectures which would have answered very 
well elsewhere ; and as they really did not know what food 
was proper for Catholic palates, of course they could not 
give it. They deserve thanks for their kindness. But it is 
not to be forgotten that the difficulties which I spoke of a little 
while ago, must necessarily beset a Protestant, who stands 
before a Catholic audience, and speaks upon almost any topic 
of general interest. He may be very learned, he may have 
every intention to please, but it is almost impossible that he 
will not say things which we cannot safely hear. I do not say 
these things in a spirit of unthankfulness to men who do not 
deserve ingratitude for well-meant efforts, but in a spirit of 
thankfulness to the society for having given us a Catholic 
course. 

God bless the institution, and give it always a sound mind 
in a sound body ! Only God can.^ay what good it has done. 

Three years had failed to make a painter of me. Well, 
I waited patiently for better things, and they came at last. 
I was engaged as clerk in a great house in Boston, and then, 
after trying in so many ways to earn a living, I stepped into the 
road that was meant for me. I was not sorry to say good- 
by to the paintbrush, but I was very sorry to part with my mas. 
ter. I had become quite attached to him, and with reason. 
He had always treated me extremely well. I never saw m 
him any thing that looked like a fault, and that is a great deal 
to say of any man. He only lacked one thing to make him a 
pattern of goodness. Alas! it was the one thing needful 
For without faith it'is impossible to please God. 


247 


CHAPTER IX. 

fOHN GETS INTO COMFORTABLE QUARTERS. FINDS THAT HE 

CANNOT CONTENT HIMSELF WITH LOOKING AT MARy’s PIC- 
TURE. TELLS HER SO, AND SHE GIVES HIM THE ORIGI- 

NAL. — ‘LITTLE johnny’s SPEECH. 

I owed my good fortune; under God, to ,Mary Riley, al- 
though I did not know it all, until we were married, seven 
years afterward. She was sixteen years old, and she was just 
beginning to earn her living by teaching drawing and music. 
Her talent soon brought her pupils, and their station of life se- 
cured to her a good salary, and an entmnce into the houses of 
wealthy persons. Her extraordinary beauty made her an ob- 
ject of persecution on the part of a flock of lovers. Some of 
them had nothing but a dice-box and a pair of mustachios. 
None of these troubled her a second time. Neither did a lib- 
ertine care to venture near her twice. Then she had others ; 
some with purses without brains, and some with brains without 
purses. And she had a few offers from men who really de- 
served a good woman, and who were able to make her the 
queen of fashion. She managed them all with admirable tem- 
per. She never gave any one the slightest encouragement 
in word or in manner ; and while she was very affable, she 
contrived in some way to make it appear that she was not 
sought by any one. I suppose it was because she never spoke 
of her conquests, and never allowed a dangler to come near 
her. She had a wonderful knack of freezing men whom she 
did not like, so that they kept a respectful distance. She had 
not a spice of the coquette in her nature. She was utterly 
unlike those heartless fools, of both sexes, who love to raise 
expectations they never mean to gratify. They generally get 
the reward they deserve. They lose their friends, one by 
one, till all are gone. They are thoroughly despised by all 
who know them, and by no one more than by themselves. 

I saw Mary often during these three years. She was the 
idol of her uncle, and she so resolutely insisted upon her priv- 
ilege of seeing me, that he at last consented to it. But in a 


248 


little more than a year, he removed to New York, and he 
tried hard to get her to go with him ; but she steadily refused. 
Then she procured a quiet corner in a Catholic family, and 
kept it until I took her away from it. She told me that she 
expected to see me, but not oftener than once a fortnight, un- 
less some business brought me ; and that I was not to invent 
any business, or think of some, and forget it when I saw her. 
Then she told me not to select a particular evening for my 
visits. Finally, she insisted that I should not come near her 
unless I looked neatly. And so the time passed on. 

She consented to go with me occasionally to our -societies, 
but this did not often happen. She always received me pleas- 
antly, — not a word ever passed her lips to make me at all 
uneasy in her society. In fact, her good sense and admirable 
temper made her liked by every body. 1 always felt very 
happy while I was with her, for she was very frank towards 
me. She never said any thing, though, that might make me 
think that she had any idea of being attached to me in any 
other sense than a sister might be attached to a brother. I 
often sadly wanted to put her in mind of the time when I 
called her my little wife, and I tried to do it more than once, 
but my courage always failed. Besides, I always felt that she 
was not meant for me, and I was afraid to introduce a subject 
that would make her say so. 

I never had any uneasy feelings in her company, though. 
When I was with her, she seemed to behave just as if we 
were accepted lovers, who never talked about the matter. 

I used to hear that she was a great favorite in Beacon Street, 
and several times it was said that she was certainly going to 
be married to a wealthy man. I saw her once or twice in 
Washington Street, with a very fa^ionable-looking gentleman. 
I could not help thinking that I ought to feel very glad that 
she was going to do so well, but I could not help feeling sad 
about it. I have none"" of that romance which bewitched girls 
and boys get from their bad reading, about the power of un- 
requited love to break the heart. These persons have their 
brains completely addled by silly novels and sillier poetry. 
They generally make miserable husbands and wives, because 
they are not fit for the common duties of life. I never thought 
that there was any necessity of dying, if I could not get Mary. 
To be sure, I loved her well, and it made me sad, at times, to 
think that my case might be hopeless. But I postponed break- 
ing my heart until she really would be married to another 


249 


man, and then I would be governed by circumstances. I, too, 
would probably marry ; fall in love with my wife ; beget chil- 
dren ; and love them as well as if they were also Mary’s. I 
would always have her to love as a sister, and, next to marry- 
ing her, this was the best thing for me. At all events, it was 
better than breaking my heart, like a fool. It is a pity that 
boys and girls are allowed to turn their heads by getting such 
silly notions in them. A human heart is made of tougher stuff. 
If any thing is cracked in such cases, it is what little brains 
the disappointed boy or girl ever had. 

I visited Mr. Groan often, of course ; so did Mary, oc- 
casionally. He was full of the notion that we were meant for 
one another, and he was always talking about her. Whether 
I went to see him oftener on this account, I cannot say. One 
day he was full of it, and running over. She had been in 
the shop, and she had said some very pleasant things about me, 
which he magnified greatly in telling, I believe. 

Mary never alluded, in my presence, to any of her admirers. 
I would see some pretty box, or trinket, or a nicely-bound 
book, every time I went to see her, and she would say that 
they were presents from her pupils. One evening, when I 
went there, a gentleman was just saying to her, farewell. He 
looked quite downcast, and she was a little agitated. When 
he went out, she sat down, and said nothing fora minute, look- 
ing very grave all the time. Then she said, I am glad he is 
gone. 

What is the matter ? I felt jealous, and I suppose I looked 
so. She fixed her pretty eyes on mine for a moment, and I 
thought I could feel their gaze falling upon my heart. Then 
she smiled. 

John, do you feel uneasy because you saw that man here ? 

I do^ although I am ashamed of it, because I know that it 
is none of my business. I said this in the most self-denying 
tone you ever heard. Then she laughed merrily. 

Did I ever make you uneasy for a moment } 

God knows that you never did. 

Well, John, I will not now. That man is very rich, and he 
has asked me to marry him. What would you advise me to 
do.? And here there was a comical twinkle in her eye, as if 
it said. Don’t tell me to have him. 

In spite of myself, my lip quivered, and my voice would not 
come. I felt as if all the water in the world would not wet 
my throat. At last I managed to speak. Mary, do you think 


250 


that he would treat you well — as well as you deserve to be 
treated ? although that is not an easy matter. 

I have no doubt that he w’ould. He is a very good man, as 
far as I can judge. I know that he would make a good hus- 
band, because he is very kind to his mother. His habits are 
correct, too. In short, he is fit for any woman. 

Then, Mary, — here I tried to swallow what seemed to me 
to be a string of cannon balls, — you — you had better — 
you — that is — I ^ 

John, I have refused him, point blank. Here the cannon 
balls changed to sugar-plums. 

You have refused him ! 

Why, yes, John ; what are you thinking of ? I know that 
he is a good man — - a great deal too good for me. But, in the 
first place, I am too young to marry. I am in no hurry what- 
ever about it. I do not approve of marrying until one gets to 
be a woman, and I am not one yet. Besides^ I have seen no 
one in those fine houses whom I would be willing to have. 
If I have refused the man that came here to-night, 1 certainly 
should refuse men who are not so good as he is. Do you feel 
uneasy now ? 

O, no ! But Mary, I would and here I stopped. 

Well! 

How is it that we — that we don’t seem to be so free 
towards one another, as we used to be v’hen we were children ? 
We seem to grow more distant as we grow older. 

John, have I ever seemed distant to you ? 

No, Mary, no ! It is not that ! I — I don’t know exactly 
what I want to say, and I am afraid that I have no business to 
say it. But here is what I mean. See here 1 And I pulled 
from my bosom the picture she "bad given me years before. 

She turned beautifully red, and her eyes shone upon me in 
a way that made me feel a little dizzy. 

And this is my answer. See here ! She pulled out the 
medal, and held it up a moment, when she put it back. 

Going home I wondered whether my legs were legs, or 
wings. 

My master came to me one day, and said that a lady wished 
to see me. I went down, and it was Mary. 

John, said she, you know that this business was never made 
for you. Now, there is a good chance to change it for the bet- 
ter. A very good post is vacant at the house of Galloway 
and Co. You know where it is, don’t you ? Well, go there 


251 


to-day, and ask for young Mr. Galloway. Tell him that your 
name is John O’Brien. Then hear what he has to say to 
you. 

But how did you find this out, Mary ? 

O, never mind. I wish that you could get the place, if it 
were only for my convenience. 

For your convenience ! How is that? 

Why, said she, laughing, can’t you guess ? I suppose that 
I must endure your company occasionally, but I don’t like the 
smell of turpentine, and you always smell strongly of it. 
Now, be sure to go in time ; and here is another thing. Be 
sure to say seven Hail Marys on the way. 

I went to the office of Galloway, as directed. When I 
entered, I saw a young man standing at the door. It was the 
same person who was in Mary’s room. 

Will you tell me where I will find young Mr. Galloway ? 

You need not go far, for I am the person. Do you wish to 
speak to me ? Come this way. He passed through a room 
where five or six men were writing, and led the way into an 
empty one. Well, sir, what is your business ? 

My name is John O’Brien. I have heard that you wanted 
a clerk. 

Ah, I understand. Well, sir, were you ever a clerk ? Do 
you know the business ? 

No, sir. 

What sort of characters do you make ? Can you write 
well, and quickly ? Here, take this sheet of paper, and copy 
that letter. And he took a newspaper, and began to read it. 
I finished the copy, and turned to him. 

What, done already ? You are quick enough. Let me see 
it. Very well, very well. Do you understand book-keeping ? 

I never kept books, sir ; that is, not large ones. But I have 
studied it, and I know how to do it. 

See here, then. And he asked me several questions refer- 
ring to his books on the desk. I answered them correctly, 
and then he put several cases to me about books that were 
badly kept I was lucky enough to satisfy him in all the 
cases but two. He said that he was not surprised, for they 
were complicated cases. 

So you would like to be our clerk, would you ? 

If you will take me, sir. 

Well, I like your looks. And then you are recommended 
by one to whom I can refuse nothing. When can you come ? 
to-morrow ? 


252 


I will ask my master, said I, for he knows nothing aboTJ 
this. I will come back to-morrow, and tell you what he says 

Very well. You can begin your career here on Monday 
next. That will give you time to settle all your affairs. I 
shall give you only four hundred dollars the first year ; but if 
we agree, you will get more afterwards. Good afternoon. 

It seems that Mary gave lessons to his two sisters, at his 
house, and he had seen her there. He was bent upon mak- 
ing her his wife, and I have told you how he succeeded. 
The fact was, his family had selected a wife for him, and it 
would have been an excellent match, as, in fact, it is ; for he 
has married her, and each is worthy of the other. Now, to 
say nothing of the fact that Mary did not love him, she knew 
something of the proposed match, and she was not disposed 
to be an apple of discord in the family, even if a good hus- 
band were the prize. So she refused him, and he behaved 
like a gentleman ; which was the more consoling, as her en- 
gagements would not permit her to stop going to the house, 
and giving lessons, unless for very weighty reasons. So he 
saw her there occasionally ; but he never, by word or sign, 
renewed the subject. In fact, he seemed determined to make 
the best of the matter, and think no more about it ; and he 
did not see any necessity for growing pale, and staring the 
moon out of countenance, and stopping his allowance of 
victuals, and writing poetry, and sinking into an early grave, 
and all that. It was a pity he didn’t ; but then, he was some- 
thing better than an animal, and he never read novels. So Mary 
heard him saying to his sisters that such a clerk had gone, and 
he wondered whether he could get a good young man in his 
place. She thought of me, anckshe asked him if he would 
give the place to a friend of her father, if he could fill it. 
Of course, he said he would. 

I had to change my boarding-place for one nearer the stores 
A good one was recommended to me ; it was the house of 
our chief clerk, who was an old man. He had four sons and 
three daughters, all grown up, and living with him. I found 
the house as pleasant as it needed to be. The young men 
and women were well behaved, and they all had "a fair share 
of intelligence. It was a musical family ; a son and a daugh- 
ter were professors, and the rest had good voices. So there 
was a litfie singing, and a great deal of pleasant talking, every 
evening. I soon found myself quite at home. 

Sunday came. Mr. O’Brien, where do you go to meeting > 
I think that we can accommodate you, if you can be suited any 


253 


where. I am a Unitarian, and my wife here is a Methodist 
Two of my sons and one of my daughters go to the Univer- 
salist meeting. One son is a Baptist. The other is just what 
you see him, nothing at all. We are all going to meeting, 
and he is going to stay at home, and play the flute. Well, he 
hasn’t got bad habits, that’s one comfort. One of my daugh- 
ters goes to the Orthodox meeting, and the other one is an 
Episcopalian. Take your choice. 

I cannot choose. I am a Catholic. And I went away, laugh- 
ing at their astonished looks and gestures. 

Now, what a family that is ! As many religions, almost, in 
it as there are individuals. It is a thing which you will often 
see, although not always to this extent. I have often thought 
of the difference, in this respect, between Catholic and Prot- 
estant families. The children of a Catholic parent, when he 
is not grossly and criminally negligent, seem to take to the 
Church naturally, as if they had an intuitive knowledge that she 
is the only mother they have on earth. . A Catholic child will 
sometimes imitate the negligence of his parent in attending to 
his duties ; but apostasy in the children is extremely rare. 
Almost the only house where it happens is one in which there 
has taken place one of those unfortunate mixed marriages. 
Then, if the Catholic party be very negligent, his children 
may lose their hopes of salvation. But the general rule is, 
that children grow up, and become men and women, and die, 
without dreaming of the possibility of apostatizing, any more 
than if such a crime never had an existence. This is the general, 
rule in Catholic countries. Exceptions happen when some 
new heresy disturbs the church, as it did in the sixteenth cen- 
tury, when thousands were seized with the fashionable mad- 
ness. Exceptions, too, happen at other seasons ; but very 
rarely. From all the specimens I have seen, I believe that 
the persons who leave the Church are people whom we should 
be glad to let go. Thousands of nominal Christians there are 
in the Church, who afflict her, who offend God, who scandalize 
their brethren. But no one ever left her who was any credit 
whatever to her. Dean Swift said that he liked to see Pa- 
pists converted. But the Papists who come over to us, said 
he, are only weeds which the Pope has pulled out of his gar- 
den, and has ffung over the fence to us. But these cases of 
apostasy are very rare. Ten out of a thousand would be a 
large proportion. 

Once a Protestant tried to account for the fact that our 

22 


254 


children take to Popery as naturally as ducks do to the water 
He said that it was owing to the strict religious education oui 
children receive from their parents. Would to God that 
parents were strict. The reason is, that the children were 
baptized, and so received the gift of faith. This is a thing 
that the Protestant cannot understand ; and no wonder, for he 
knows not what faith is. For the rest, the children of true 
Catholic parents learn their Catechism, and receive what they 
find there as readily as they would the simplest lesson. And, 
in truth, the lesson to them is simple. They believe unhesi- 
tatingly ; and, if they do not drive the grace of God from 
their hearts, unhesitatingly they believe until the end of their 
lives. 

What can be stricter than the training children get from 
Calvinistic parents.? Well, what is the result.? The chil- 
dren rarely die in the persuasion of their parents. You will 
frequently find several religions professed in one house. This 
is never regarded by Protestants with surprise, and seldom 
with concern, because change of religious views is so very 
common that it may fairly be regarded as the general rule, hav- 
ing numerous exceptions. . The lack of true faith makes the 
Protestant community look upon the daily occurrence of these 
changes with indifference. The presence 'of faith makes a 
community of a thousand Catholics regard the one or two 
apostates with irrepressible horror and concern. 

That Sunday evening, I had to stand fire from all the family, 
excepting the nothingarian. He said I had as good a right to 
my religion as they had to theirs. The ladies were very elo- 
quent upon our ignorance and superstition. I showed that 
their objections were made because they were utterly ignorant 
of the real nature of our religion. 

But, said I, I think that we can turn the tables. I have 
shown that we are not superstitious, unless it be superstitious 
to obey the commandments of God. But it is not hard to 
show that you Protestants are guilty of superstitions that 
ought to make you hide your heads for shame. When you 
talk about our superstition, you are always careful to go back 
to old times, and to distant countries. I will take examples 
from our own times, and from enlightened America. What 
can be more abjectly superstitious than the opinions and 
practices of fanatics who arise up so often in your midst .? 
And yet I see you following them in droves. What can be 
more insanely wicked than the sayings and doings of such 


255 


men as Cochrane and Matthias? And you run after them !• 
What more supremely superstitious than the conduct of the 
Mormons ? And you follow them in herds ! What more 
outrageously superstitious than the preaching of that poor 
fool, Miller, who says that the world is soon going to end ? 
And see how he has made flocks of poor fools in every city, 
in every village ! How he has driven hundreds incurably in- 
sane ! How he has persuaded hundreds to close their shops, 
settle their affairs, shut up their houses, put on nightgowns, 
and be all ready when the crash comes ! Talk of supersti- 
tion ! People who live in glass houses ought not to throw 
stones ! 

They changed the discourse, and the eldest son asked me 
how it was that we were such slaves to our priests*. 

I knew not before that we were. It is a queer kind of 
slavery where the slave does not know that he is in bondage. 
You canno^ charge it to ignorance, for you have read some- 
what, and you know that learning is nowhere so encouraged 
as it is in Catholic countries. Your greatest men would be 
third-rate scholars at Rome. Channing is your giant ; in the 
Roman College he would be a pigmy. We obey only God. 
But He only speaks through His Church. In obeying her, 
we obey Him. This is enlightened obedience, for it is paid 
only to God. You Protestants, when you obey any one, obey 
wan, and as man, which is real slavery. And you give your 
obedience to those whom you call your greatest and wisest ; 
you say that these are your ministers. Then you are slaves 
to your preachers. And the best proof of it is, that they have 
made all of you really believe a host of atrocious falsehoods 
concerning the Catholic Church. They have falsified all 
history to work out the slander, and you blindly believe it, and 
echo it. Who are the slaves, I wonder ? 

It is to be noticed, that your slavery to them is an intellec- 
tual one ; that is, you blindly pin your thoughts about religion 
upon what you hear them say. There is the difference be- 
tween you and us. We believe only on the authority of God, 
speaking through His Church. You believe on the authority 
of your ministers. The utmost liberty you enjoy is that of 
a change of masters. You can run from meeting to meeting, 
from master to master. That does not make your slavery 
less humiliating; because, change your meetings as you will, 
you are always in bondage to man. Don’t stare so, for it is 
true. Put it to the tes* There is no medium, you know, 


256 


between serving God and serving man. You do not believe 
because God teaches you ; for no one of your churches pre- 
tends to teach in the name, and by the authority, of God. His 
spirit does not teach you ; for He could never teach the con- 
tradictory religions that are professed in this very house, to 
go no farther. The Bible is as much the property of the 
Unitarian as it is of the Calvinist. Then the conclusion is 
evident. Protestants are the slaves of man. 

I will put it in another way. When we are asked why we 
believe this or that article, we answer. Because Christ re- 
vealed it, and the Church teaches it. When you are asked 
why you believe in the divinity of Christ, or in the eternity 
of hell, I hear a storm raised in this very house. One says 
that Christ is God.; the other denies it. One of you laughs 
at hell ; the other thinks that there is such a place. Now, the 
Spirit does not tell you two such stories. The Bible is as 
much hers as it is yours. Then your belief does not come 
from God. Then it is simply human. If I ask you why you 
believe in hell, and ask her why she does not, both will say 
that you think so, and that you cannot change your thoughts. 
Bat now be honest. Where did you get those thoughts ? Turn 
over the thing in your mind, and you will find you got them 
because such a minister proved them to be true, and made 
you see from the Bible how true they were. So it is true 
that Christ is God, and that He is mere man. It is true that 
there is no hell, and it is true that there is. The conclusion 
is forced upon us. You are abject slaves to your ministers. 

But there is a singular thing to be noted. Heresy is full 
of freaks, and here is one of them. Your ministers are slaves 
as well as you are. Your understanding is in bondage to 
them ; so you are their slavey But they are in bondage to 
your caprices ; so they are your slaves. It is their trade to 
preach, and so they get their bread. But their living depends 
upon your caprice. You may at any moment ruin them in 
two ways. You can run to another minister, or you may 
turn him away. In either case, he starves. So he must be 
careful not to offend you. He must trim the sails of his ves- 
sel to suit the winds of your caprice. And he has so many 
masters and mistresses, that he finds it harder to please them 
than it would be to cut stone, or to peg boots. Here is a 
case that has happened not far from Boston, and it is like 
numberless others. A young minister is very handsome, and 
has provoking, black, full whiskers. The whiskers hurt the 


257 


feelings of the old maids in the congregation, — they make 
him look so rakish, — and the spinsters say so much, that 
he cuts them off. Then the young maids get mad, and a 
schism ensues. The young ones have their way, as might be 
foreseen. The minister has committed an unpardonable sin 
in hearkening to the old maids, and so other charges are raked 
up against him, and he is dismissed. In a word, your min- 
'ster is your minister just as long as he suits you. When he 
does not, he is turned off. Perhaps you do not like his style of 
praying ; perhaps you are not satisfied with his preaching. 
He may be too ungainly or too graceful. He is too old, or too 
young. He is too ugly, or too handsome. No matter what it 
is, get a majority against him, and he must go. In every ser- 
mon he must weigh every sentence, and anxiously consider 
whether this or that idea will please his people. If they are 
infected with the abolitionist mania, or with any other, he must 
go mad with them, or try his luck elsewhere. So he is the 
slave of your caprice. 

Odd ! isn’t it, that you should be the slaves of your min- 
isters, who, in turn, are your slaves } So the shortest defini- 
tion of a Protestant is — The slave of a slave. 

What do you think of Popish slavery nowl Yoii ought to 
read the Epistles, and especially that of St. Paul to the He- 
brews, where you will find what the relations between the 
pastor and his flock really are. 

I said that preaching is the trade of your ministers. What 
we have just seen confirms the fact. It is clear, also, from 
another consideration. 

I hear of their having calls ; louder calls ; LOUDEST 
calls. You seldom, if ever, see them called from a rich con- 
gregation to a poor one ; from one where they are com- 
fortable to one where they would be afflicted. The call is 
from a thousand dollars to fifteen hundred. No city congre- 
gation would call a country minister, unless there were some- 
thing in him quite extraordinary. No country congregation 
would have the impudence to call a fashionable city minister. 

I heard no more about Popish slavery and superstition in 
that house. 

I had not been long in the store, when my curiosity was 
excited by our errand boy. His name was Gallagher, and his 
face was undeniably Irish. He was a very bright little fellow, 
about twelve years old. 

22 * 


258 


Patrick, what is your father’s name ? 

^My parents are dead. 

Ah ! where do you live ? 

Warren Street. 

Are the people Catholics ? 

No, sir, said the boy, coloring deeply. 

Well, you are a Catholic, are you not } 

I don’t know, sir. Sometimes I think I am ; sometimes I 
believe not. 

Good God ! I thought, is this boy passing through the m II 
that nearly, ground me to atoms ? My boy, do you go to 
church } 

No, sir. 

Were you ever at confession } 

No, sir. 

How long since your parents died } 

Two years. 

And you have not been to church since ? 

No, sir. 

Have you learned your Catechism } 

I knew a little of it ; but I have forgotten all about it now ! 
Why don’t you go to church } 

They won’t let me. 

Did you ever ask them to let you go } 

No ; it. wasn’t any use. They talk so about Papists ! 
Don’t you want to go to church ? 

I don’t know. Sometimes I feel as if I wanted to, but. not 
often. I feel pretty content. 

But why don’t you want to go to church every Sunday ? 

I don’t know. The Catholics ain’t respectable. They’re 
Ignorant and superstitious. I don’t want to go to a Paddy 
church ! 

My boy, are you not a Paddy 7 ^ 

No, sir. I was bom in Boston. 

So was I. But your parents were Irish ? He was silent. 
Tell me, my boy, if your father and mother could come back 
here, and stand before you, would you be ashamed of them ? 
Or would you run to their arms } The boy burst into tears. 
And if they heard you saying what you said just now, would 
they not fling you away from them, as if you were a snake } 
Would they not say. Is this our boy } and is it thus he insults 
God, disgraces his Church, scandalizes our country, and tears 


259 


our hearts ? It is not our boy ! Ours was a good little child 
that would sooner have died than trample so on the tender 
heart of Christ. 

What could / do ? asked the sobbing boy. I wasn’t ten 
years old when they died. I didn’t know any body, scarcely, 
and nobody cared any thing about me. I took the first chance 
that was offered to me to earn my living. I was put among 
Protestants, and I had to live with them. They made me go 
to meeting, and they have said so much to me that I don’t 
think of going any where else. 

Were. you willing to go to meeting at first? 

Not very. I knew it wasn’t right ; but I felt kind of curi- 
ous to see what they did at their meetings. And the people 
I saw there treated me first rate ? 

Well, don’t you feel sometimes that you really ought to go 
back to your church ? 

I used to at first ; but now it’s only once in a while. I felt' 
pretty bad once, passing by the church, and seeing the boys 
come out. So you’ve made me feel very bad ; but, some- 
how, I’m glad you spoke to me about it. I’ve got almost 
hardened. You’re the first Catholic I’ve spoken to for more 
than a year. 

Well, now, don’t you feel that you must go back ? 

Yes, a little. ^ 

Are you not willing to return ? 

Yes ; but I’m afraid of the folks I live with. 

Never mind them. I’ll fix all that, and get you a new 
place to live, if you will go to church next Sunday. What 
do you say to it ? 

Well, I will. 

Very good. Now, where have you been to meeting all this 
time ? 

O, I’ve been with Mr. Barnum. He’s a real nice man ! 

Ah ! I see. I understand it now. 

This Mr. Barnum is one of the “ Friends and Fathers.” In 
a Protestant sense, he is a good Christian. As a man, he is 
of very unassuming, mild, and winning manners. Children 
who know him love him well ; for he is fond of the company 
of young persons ; he understands their ways thoroughly, and 
he is always devising something new to make them happy. 
Now, this man is full of zeal for the perversion of Catholic 
youth. The means he employs are all of a negative kind. 
He makes his conTpany, and his chapel, very pleasant to chil 


260 


dren. He never mentions the Church, for good or for evil. 
He makes forget it. He labors assiduously in directing 
the tastes of the children in a way that would make them 
shrink from any contact with Irish people. He knows that 
the young creatures will hear-enough from their companions 
against the Paddies ; ?fnd so, what with the negative means 
employed by him, and the positive ones used by others, the 
child becomes an apostate. The calculation is a good one, 
humanly speaking. Such men as these would not succeed 
at all, if they were not, according to the world, good men — • 
excellent men. If they were open slanderers, avowed enemies 
of the Church, malicious fabricators of misrepresentations 
concerning her, they would do no harm to us. 

As it is, they succeed, here and there. But final success 
is very rare. Their calculations are good ; but they are based 
upon the supposition that the Church is a human institution, 
and that human means only are necessary to destroy her. 
They totally omit the element of baptism, in their enumera- 
tion of the obstacles to be overcome in the perversion of a 
Catholic child. Not knowing its existence, they make no 
provision against it. And so tney are continually meeting 
with rebuffs, without knowing whence they come. They fre- 
quently find that some invisible agent thwarts them, and they 
wonder what it is. After they have worked over a boy or a 
girlffor years and years, all at once, when the child is ap- 
parently Protestant, some accident happens, — the child sees 
a bishop entering his house, he passes by the church, he sees 
an old friend, he hears a word of good advice, and the whole 
Protestant stucco work falls to pieces, — the work of many 
years is undone in an hour. 

My boy, have you lived in the same house all the time } 

Yes, sir. 

It is a Protestant house. How came they to pick you up ? 

Deacon Mills got it for me. 

Good God ! Is there a Catholic boy or girl in Boston that 
is in peril, and this man does not know it .? Has not he a 
peculiar scent for Catholic destitute children } Is he not at 
their side as soon as they want help, and does he not lead 
them away, and tell them that he will make them ladies and 
gentlemen, that he will educate them, be a father to them, and 
make them useful members of society } . 

Stand forward, “ Friends and Fathers ! ” stand forward ! 
and see if you are not doing the work of devils ! 


261 


My story is told. At this time I am speaking of, I was 
nearly eighteen years of age. A boy thinks that he is a man 
at that age, .and a Boston boy is very sure that he is. Then I 
must stop, because the story is told of a boy. 

A few words will end my tale. I have never changed my 
situation, for I found that it was meant for me. -I will explain 
that word. Every man has a certain path to walk, and God 
has marked it for him. This path is called his vocatioriy 
because God has given him a vocation to walk to heaven by 
that path. In he will receive those graces which were 
meant for him, and by which he can make his vocation and 
election sure. This path may be through riches, through 
poverty ; in sickness for one man, in health for another. 
This one will meet honors and preferments ; the other will 
find worldly disgrace, merited or unmerited. The priesthood 
was meant for one, the counting-house for another. It is 
plain that it is very important to find this path, because in it 
we may be saved easily ; in any other, we may be saved, yet 
so as by fire. Well, how shall we find it ? Nothing is easier. 
God marked yoUr path for you : there He is, nearer to you 
than you are to yourself. Ask Him, and He will always 
tell you. 

There is the great mistake which is committed by thou- 
sands. Men think that they are the architects of their own 
fortunes ; and when they choose their path, the last person to 
be consulted is God. They may stumble into the right one ; 
sometimes they do. God may have mercy upon them, and 
lead them into their path ; and he sometimes does. It is true 
that one may be saved in a path of his own choice. But not 
by ordinary grace. 

I advanced, step by step, in the house, until I won the entire 
confidence of the heads. I did not steal any thing, and I was 
pretty exact in transacting their business. At the age of 
twenty-five, I became chief clerk. Four years afterwards, I 
was admitted partner in the firm. This was the doing of the 
younger Galloway, and I believe that it was for Mary’s sake. 
He had been married for some years ; and the glorious woman 
that he married made him love her. He couldn’t help it. 
Mary was his dear sister. 

Well, I married my wife when I was twenty-five. I had 
visited Mary regularly^ and she always received me with the 
same bright smile. I certainly never lost the fear of being 
compelled, at some time, to see her accept one of the many 


262 


good offers that were made to her ; and I tried to school my- 
self to the trial. Yet she refused them so constantly, that 1 
would make myself believe that my hope was not entirely 
vain. She never said a word to me about her admirers, 
unless she saw that I was disturbed about them, which she 
would find out as soon as she looked at me ; how, I don’t 
know. Then she would, in some delicate way, set me at ease. 
You may wonder why I didn’t pop the question. The fact 
is, I was afraid that she would refuse me ; that she would 
say she never meant to be married ; or that she was going to 
be a nun ; which was not impossible, for she was a true child 
of Mary in heaven. Yet I tried several times to lead the 
conversation to a point which would enable me to ask her the 
question. But she was so cunning ! She always baffled me 
in some sweet way, that consoled me. I could not help 
laughing, sometimes, to see how nicely she would thwart my 
purpose. But the time came at last. I was made chief 
clerk. I had two thousand dollars in money, and no debts. 
I was sitting with her the evening after rny promotion, of 
which I had told her as soon as 1 entered her room. The 
news seemed to make her more pleased than I had ever seen 
her before. After she had done playing an air from Norma, 
she turned round, and looked very thoughtful. I had been 
thinking busily too, and I made up my mind that 1 7nust say 
something, and say it there and then. 

Mary ! 

Well, John ? 

I have been thinking 

And so have 1. What have you been thinking about ? 

I made a desperate effort. Mary, I want to be married ! 

What a roguish twinkle there was in her eye ! 

Well, John, said she, very composedly, I think that it is 
time. You are old enough, and you can now support a 
family, with God’s blessing. You had better fall in love with 
some good girl, and marry her. I believe that you deserve a 
very good woman. 

I took the little cross from my breast. Mary, said I, a little 
girl once gave me this cross, and asked me to keep it for her 
sake, and she said that she would wear my mother’s little 
medal for mine. I recollect that I called her my little wife. 
That was sixteen years ago, and I have worn that cross next 
my heart ever since. And I have loved her always. Not a 
day passed that I did not think of her. The thought of her 


263 


has kept me often out of bad company ; for I was afraid that, 
if I sought it, she might see it in my face. I have seen her 
grow up, and become very beautiful. Many admirers tried 
to win her, and I said nothing. I was poor, and I could only 
offer her a poor home. How could I ask her to give up the 
certainty of having a splendid one } So I prayed that the 
man of her choice would be good to her, and I tried to be 
resigned, although it was hard, sometimes. Well, here lam, 
and 1 must say it. Mary, I cannot marry any other woman ! 
I know that she deserves a better man. But if I cannot have 
/ler, I will have no one ! I had rather die 

Pooh ! John. Do not talk so ! You have learned that last 
expression in some novel. Sensible people know well enough 
that love never broke any heart but a paper one. The 
heroes and heroines of novels never had flesh and blood. But 
you are too sensible to imagine that you are one of these very 
soft heroes. Tell me, John ; do you really love me } 

Mary ! Mary ! ! 

Well, well ! do not say any thing. And you want me to 
be your wife ? 

Do you not know it well ! 

She pulled from her bosom the medal. John, I told a little 
boy that I would wear this medal for his sake ;*and I have ! 
I promised, when I was a little girl, to be his little wife ; and 
I would rather be called by that name than by any other, if he 
will give it to me. 1 will not say that I will never marry if I 
cannot have him ; but I would rather have him than any one 
else. I have refused many offers, — more than he dreams 
of, — because I loved him dearly. John, she continued, 
coming to me, and putting her little hand in mine, you 
have asked me if I would be your wife. Why, John, dear ! 
I never meant to be any thing else ! Will you be mv 
husband 

So, the question was popped ! 

John, said she, a little after, have I given you any pain 
during the last ten weary years ? 

Mary, why do you ask that question } You know that you 
have not. 

Havn’t you tried, again and again, to say to me what you 
have said to-night ? 

Yes, I have. But you always turned it off in some way o 
other. I could not feel angry with you, you always did i* 
so gently. 


264 


Do you know why I did it ? 

I do not. 

Well, it was hard to do. I often had to struggle a little to 
do it. The fact is, John, if you had asked me, I could not have 
refused you. Tell me ; if you could have married me when 
you were only twenty, you would have done it. Is it not 
true ? 

I believe you are right. 

So do I. That is just the calculation you men make 
sometimes. How could you have supported a family ? I 
don’t believe in love in a cottage, and all that, because I hate 
novels. I can’t live on looking at a man, though I love him 
ever so dearly. He and I must have something to eat. And 
so I kept you off, although my heart plead for you strongly. 

Mr. Groan was the happiest man at the wedding, except 
one. 

Readers of this story ! My boy, Mary’s boy, a curly- 
headed fellow of five years, asks leave to say one word to 
every boy and girl that reads my tale. Will you hear him ? 
Yes ! Johnny, step forward, and make your bow ! 

Little boys and girls ! You see Protestants every day. 
You have to see them, and go with them. When you grow 
up, you will have to do the same, because you must earn a 
living. Now, if you will hear me, I would like to have you 
do what my father learned me. When you go into the street, 
or into a house, or store, where there are Protestants, make 
the sign of the cross ; and, if you have time, say one Hail 
Mary, and add to it, Queen, conceived without original sin 1 
Help of Christians, pray for me ! My father told me that I 
ought to do it for the same reason that makes Catholics take 
holy water at the door of the church. Little boys and girls, 
good-by ! 


THE END. 


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